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Steve's chipmunk story
Since there's some interest in "critters" here, I thought I'd share this story with y'all. This is a two-part, two-day story....
Dateline: SUNDAY
In the back yard, we enjoy the sights of nature. Among these are the birds that frequent the bird feeders and the bird bath, and the chipmunks that live in the woodpile (I won't mention the squirrels, because they are dastardly creatures that God placed here by mistake).
But we also have a neighborhood cat that lurks about in the yard.
The cat has tried to get the birds that feed on the ground, but thus far he has come up empty-handed. The bird feeder offers our feathered feasters a clear view of feline approaches.
The chipmunks aren't so lucky.
I have seen the cat on two occasions trotting back towards the woods with a chipmunk in its mouth. This makes me angry for two reasons: (1) those are MY chipmunks, and (2) one woodpile can hold only a finite number of chipmunks, and their numbers are dwindling.
So every time I see the cat, I let it know that it is NOT welcome. Clapping and shouting usually scare it off; I was thinking about getting a pellet rifle...
Yesterday, while mowing the lawn, I saw the cat walking behind the workshop. I stopped the mower and set off at a dead run around the workshop to head off the cat and scare its little bells off.
I rounded the corner, caught sight of the cat, and started yelling. The cat had something in its mouth which I hadn't noticed. It dropped the thing and headed for the woods. The thing turned out to be a chipmunk, still alive.
The chipmunk saw this old man wearing a bright orange WAR D*MN EAGLE t-shirt running toward it and must have thought he'd died and was headed toward the light. He took off, too, following the cat into the woods.
"Stop, you stupid chipmunk!" I yelled as though it could understand. By this time I was running out of breath and could imagine the cat sitting in the felled timber, mouth wide open, waiting for the chipmunk to run in. I ran faster to get in front of it, trying to herd the chipmunk (who was determined to continue towards the woods and certain death) back towards the house. This was a difficult task, much akin to catching a chicken. But I finally managed to assure the chipmunk that I was more dangerous than the cat, and it eventually ran under the workshop, safe for the moment.
I was pooped.
I grew up watching Chip & Dale on television. You fellow aging folks will note they were sly, crafty, and could outwit any predator into eating its own tail. The cartoons were all lies. Chipmunks in reality are stupid, with a memory short enough to forget that the cat, in whose jaws he was clamped just moments before, was trying to eat it. I am so disillusioned.
Thanks, Walt.
Dateline: TUESDAY (If this had not happened, I would have kept all this to myself)
EPILOGUE
Gloria and I were enjoying after-breakfast coffee this morning at the breakfast table. We were watching two Titmouse at the bird feeder and noticed the chipmunk on the woodpile. Possibly the one I saved the other day?
Since we cleared the woods out back there, the woodpile offers a clear view of the morning sun. Chipmunk was sitting on the eastern end of the woodpile, sunning himself and deciding where to forage for food this morning.
ZOOM! Out of the sun from the east swooped a hawk. In an instant, he snatched up the chipmunk, turned and kicked off the woodpile like a competition swimmer, and zoomed away with its prize, both too fast and too high for me to chase. We sat there stunned, staring at each other in disbelief.
I wonder if there are any more chipmunks in the woodpile. Why couldn’t the hawk have taken the cat??
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