I was deployed to the UAE during the first Gulf War when I first read Leon Uris’s novel, The Haj. If you’ve never read it, it’s a sweeping, unflinching novel about Arab tribal culture set against the backdrop of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Sitting in the desert, surrounded by the very geopolitical tension Uris was writing about, one phrase branded itself into my brain and never left:
“The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”
It’s an ancient principle — raw, survival-driven, born from centuries of tribal alliance-making. You don’t have to love your ally. You don’t even have to like them. You just have to recognize that you share a common enemy, and that shared opposition makes you useful to each other.
I’ve spent decades since then fascinated by the question underneath that phrase: How and why do people move in and out of groups? That question drove my PhD research, my leadership practice, and my deep appreciation for Leader-Member Exchange (LMX) theory — the idea that leaders inevitably sort the people around them into an in-group and an out-group, often without realizing it.
What I never expected was that my most vivid illustration of that principle would have scales.
I Am a Mountain Person
When Mike and I moved to our 22 wooded acres in Pennsylvania, I was in heaven. Trees. Wildlife. Space. This was exactly where I was meant to be.
What I was decidedly not meant to do, apparently, was share that space with snakes.
In 2022, I was on a mid-Zoom call at my kitchen desk when a tiny garter snake slithered out from underneath the washing machine. Gulf War veteran. F-15/F-16 maintenance officer. International speaker. I absolutely lost it. The Zoom call may or may not have survived the encounter.
But before I ever saw a snake on my property, I had evidence of one. Shed skins. Measuring nine feet long. Our HVAC technician found one in the basement and yelled loud enough for me to hear him upstairs. So, I knew something large was out there — I just hadn’t met it yet.
Then, in 2023, both Mike and I got bitten by ticks on our own property. Suddenly, the wildlife equation shifted. The woods I loved came with a cost, and that cost was personal.
I started paying attention differently.
The Kitchen Window
In April 2024, I was working at my desk when I sensed someone watching me. I looked up, and there he was — a massive black rat snake, draped across my kitchen door frame, peering through the glass at me with complete calm and zero apology.
I had just enough glass between us not to panic. I looked at him — really looked — and noticed something immediately: he had a full belly. This snake had just finished a shift. He wasn’t threatening me. He was practically punching out for the day and stopping by to say hello.
I grabbed my camera. And then I did something that surprised even me.
I smiled.
That smile is not a performance. That is a woman making a decision in real time. A decision to move someone — something — from the out-group to the in-group. Not because of shared hatred. Not because of ancient tribal survival math. But because I paused long enough to see what was actually in front of me.
I named him Mr. Bo Tangles. And nothing has been the same since.
And lest you think the relationship stayed safely on the other side of the glass — there was the afternoon I found him inside the kitchen, draped across the top of the blind. No photo exists because I was too busy trying to coax an eight-foot snake back out the door. The woman who screamed at a baby garter snake in 2022 was now calmly negotiating with Mr. Bo Tangles like a seasoned wildlife ambassador. Growth is real. (For the record: I promptly blocked all the exterior vents after that. A healthy relationship has boundaries. That was his one and only interior visit.)
What Mr. Bo Tangles Actually Is
Before I fully welcomed him into the tribe, I did what any good leader should: I gathered the facts.
Black rat snakes are non-venomous. Unless you can fit inside their mouth, you are perfectly safe. They eat the mice and voles that carry ticks — the same ticks that had bitten Mike and me the year before. They consume copperhead eggs and deter venomous snakes from establishing territory nearby. Appalachian farming communities knew this for generations — they valued black snakes so highly that killing one was considered bad luck. Some families reportedly gave them as gifts to newlyweds setting up their first home, protecting the food supply from rodents with dirt floors underfoot.
In short, Mr. Bo Tangles had been working my 22 acres long before I ever acknowledged him. He was doing a job I didn’t know I needed done by an employee I’d been too afraid to hire. But here’s what really sealed it for me. I was so struck by his consistent behavior — the annual window visits, the calm around the dogs, the way he seemed to actively seek out our company — that I jumped on Claude AI to ask whether what I was interpreting as genuine camaraderie was real or imagined.
The answer? Completely real.
Black rat snakes are remarkably inquisitive by nature, far more curious and visually alert than most snake species. When comfortable in their environment and with the people around them, they actively seek out proximity rather than retreat. I wasn’t projecting. The relationship was mutual. Science confirmed what my heart already knew — he wasn’t just tolerating us. He was choosing us. And then there’s this: my neighbors higher up the mountain deal with copperheads regularly. I do not. Not one.
The ancient principle Leon Uris wrote about — the enemy of my enemy is my friend — turns out to be alive and well on 22 Pennsylvania acres. Mr. Bo Tangles isn’t just my ally. He’s my security perimeter.
The Relationship Arc
What happened next unfolded the way the best relationships always do — gradually, through repeated contact, growing trust, and mutual respect.
By 2025, Mr. Bo Tangles was patrolling the front driveway in full view, stretched to his impressive length across the hot pavement like a landlord doing a property inspection.
He discovered the greenhouse — climbing the glass panels, draping himself across the upper frames with extraordinary agility, making himself completely at home among my plants. When my husband Mike moved his woodpile into the greenhouse, I was annoyed by a developing mouse problem. Mike thought he was storing firewood. He was actually building a five-star resort for our most valuable team member.
By spring 2026, he had claimed the woodpile as his personal headquarters — the perfect hunting ground for the mice that had been giving me trouble all season. And then came the moment I knew the relationship had fully arrived: I walked right past him with all three dogs. Goliath, Sapphire, and Tanzanite didn’t even break stride. Mr. Bo Tangles didn’t move an inch.
That is not fear management. That is trust.
The LMX Lesson
Leader-Member Exchange theory holds that leaders develop different-quality relationships with different followers, and that those in the in-group receive more trust, more opportunities, and more genuine engagement than those in the out-group.
Here’s what LMX doesn’t always tell you: sometimes the most valuable person in the room is the one your gut instinct puts in the out-group.
Mr. Bo Tangles failed every initial screening:
•Wrong appearance
•Triggered fear response
•Made others uncomfortable
•Didn’t look like what “help” was supposed to look like
And yet he was:
•Eliminating the rodent problem
•Reducing tick exposure across the entire property
•Deterring venomous snakes
•Showing up consistently, season after season
•Seeking out relationship with the household
The only thing standing between him and the in-group was my unexamined fear. Leon Uris was right that shared enemies create alliances. But that’s not why Mr. Bo Tangles is tribe now. He’s tribe because I slowed down, looked through the glass, did the research, and made a decision to see him clearly instead of reacting to him instinctively. That’s not the enemy of my enemy. That’s something better. That’s alignment.
The Question for You
Every leader has an out-group. The question isn’t whether you have one — it’s whether you’ve examined it lately.
Who on your team looks wrong, moves differently, makes others uncomfortable, or simply doesn’t fit the mold of what you thought a valuable contributor should look like? Who have you been reacting to instead of observing? Who have you been fearing instead of understanding?
Because somewhere in your out-group, there may be an eight-foot black rat snake who has been quietly doing extraordinary work on your behalf — waiting for the moment you look through the glass long enough to see what’s actually there.
The relationship you almost hissed could be the one that changes everything.
And this spring, I spotted several baby black snakes already making their rounds on the property. The next generation of Mr. and Mrs. Bo Tangles is on the job. Something tells me the 22 acres of Spring Hill Lane are in very good hands — or rather, very good scales — for years to come. The woman who lost it over a tiny garter snake in 2022 is now genuinely delighted to see baby snakes in 2026. If that’s not a leadership transformation story, I don’t know what is.
P.S. — To my sisters who may be reading this: I sincerely apologize for not mentioning the snake in the house sooner. Please still come visit. He’s very friendly. And unless you can fit in his mouth, you’ll be just fine. 😃
Tracey C. Jones, PhD, is President & CEO of Tremendous Leadership and author of 14 books on leadership, followership, and personal development. She lives on 22 wooded acres in Pennsylvania with her husband Mike, three dogs, two cats, and one very dedicated black rat snake named Mr. Bo Tangles.
