The Law of Unintended Consequences

Squirrel, spelled t-r-o-u-b-l-e.

I've been rethinking my approach to feeding Chip-Chip. Those rascally squirrels have been finding his food and possibly intimidating Chip-Chip in the process. I imagine he's feeling a bit oppressed by his change in fortune.

Just as the chipmunk population exploded in 2006, a parallel population explosion is taking place among the grey squirrels. Last week, I counted at least 8. They could easily vacuum Chip-Chip's reserves, chase him around the yard to push him out of their territory, or, worse, hold him hostage until I dump a 50-pound bag of premium sunflower seeds in their favorite chowing-down spots.

The conventional wisdom has been that as food becomes more abundant for chipmunks their populations will grow as a result. Then their predators will swoop down and eliminate the excess, the old, the weak, or the near-sighted chipmunks.

But now I have a new theory: As the food supply increases, competitors--bigger, meaner, less charming competitors--will do their best to take the chipmunk's food and run him out of town. If the predators don't get the squirrels--because, let's face it, not too many hawks or owls hang around a residential neighborhood, and stray cats don't always prove tough enough or fast enough to take on squirrels--then the grey squirrel population explodes, at the expense of Chip-Chip and his buddies.

Conclusion: In good times or bad, chipmunks just can't catch a break.

A Sunday Afternoon Visitor

Yesterday, Chip-Chip had an unannounced visitor. Since it was Sunday and all, I imagine critters drop in on each other in much the same way as the occasional unwelcome distant relative, looking for a fresh cup of coffee and a cinnamon roll, or passing judgment on a home in disarray, unprepared for the uninvited. (Why do drop-ins never bring anything to share with the drop-in-ee, in other words, the dropped-in-upon?)

The visitor in Chip-Chip's case turned out to be a 13-lined ground squirrel (a.k.a. Mr. Gopher). The 13-lined ground squirrel shimmied behind the front steps and in a few moments exited the south end and wandered off. Since his fur was still unruffled—and no major wounds were apparent—one of three things probably happened: First, the 13-lined ground squirrel found Chip-Chip asleep, since the temperature was rather cold in the mid-thirties, and didn’t have the heart to wake him. Second, the 13-lined ground squirrel stopped in for a moment, exchanged pleasantries, and then, having run out of conversation or snacks, decided to be on his way. Or, third, the 13-lined ground squirrel stopped by, found no Chip-Chip, helped himself briefly to Chip-Chip’s stockpile of sunflower seeds—an unavoidable instinct of little critters and of more than a few people (see my first post)—and scampered off before getting caught.

There may be other possibilities, but, quite frankly, I’m growing annoyed writing 13-lined ground squirrel. What an inelegant and clumsy way to describe a little critter. What’s the point of saying 13-lined? Is a zebra called the 257-striped zebra? Is the leopard called the 799-spotted leopard? Furthermore, is the chipmunk called the 5-lined (or striped) chipmunk? Or worse, the 5-black-lined (or striped), 2-white-lined (or striped) chipmunk? That’s a name that would weigh down and cripple any little critter. And where’s the art in the name? The naming of the chipmunk, by contrast, at least has the twin virtues of (1) being easy to say and (2) being drawn in part on its behavior, not just superficial features.

I propose that the 13-lined ground squirrel’s name be changed to the garden squirrel, the yard squirrel, the holy squirrel (as in one that makes holes), the sneaky squirrel, or, if nothing else, Earl. Now, I'll be the first to admit that Earl could cause confusion if you have a relative or dog named Earl, if you refer to your rake as Earl, or if you like to talk to your neighbor about the TV show My Name is Earl. So you can easily see that my proposals possess limited merit. My overall point is larger: namely, that people of unbelievably little imagination (the 7-penned pocket-protected nerdius-maximus?) have been authorized to hang the noose of 13-lined ground squirrel around a little critter that had no say in the matter.

If there is any consolation, most people refer to it as a gopher anyway. Out of ignorance most likely. But I’d like to think it's out of respect for the little critter or out of rebellion against THE MAN.

P.S. When is a stripe not a stripe but a line? Is there an international standard for determining the official designation of lines and stripes? Who's on that international board? How were they elected? And who's following the money? I smell the dirty rat of politics . . . the stripelessed-linelessed bald tail of corruption.

Cancelled Due to Snow

Which way is south?

Another snow storm has hit Minnesota this April. That's two in about as many weeks. Rain fell first, freezing the tops on the bird feeders. Tulips have turned a kind of sickly dark green, and the budding shrubs are coated with a crystalline shell. It would all be sort of pretty if it weren't so miserable outside.

Chip-Chip is nowhere to be seen, and the robin above probably regrets returning here from a warmer, friendlier migratory home.

Under these conditions, Chip-Chip is probably curled up and snoozing in his burrow while the wind above howls away. I'll stay inside and read the newspaper. Then after that, I might be tempted to dig my own burrow.

Much of the world is not a happy place for chipmunks. I think I'll stock up on sunflower seeds--when it stops snowing.

In Defense of Not Taking Baths

Chip-Chip may be your best argument against taking a traditional bath.

For a ground-dwelling little critter--who rummages through the leaves, retreats to an underground burrow, and roots around in the dirt for tasty tidbits--Chip-Chip is amazingly clean and well-groomed, no doubt part of his good breeding, mentioned earlier.

Note the close-up photos. His whiskers are immaculate. His fur is smooth and shiny. His toenails are cleaner than mine. And he smells--well, at least not objectionable--as far as I can tell from a distance of a few feet away. And he doesn't even have the option of deodorant.

So all in all, if you're nagged to take a bath, just point to Chip-Chip. Be cautioned, however: The only downside is that you'll have to spend a lot time out of your day licking yourself.

The Daily Routine

After retreating to his burrow,

Chip-Chip pokes his head out . . .

. . . and poses for a few photos. (Notice the pleasant smile.)

Since it's fair to infer from my earlier entries that I may on occasion inappropriately impose myself on the life of Chip-Chip and his cohorts, I thought I might as well reveal my daily support of the neighborhood critters. Then you can make of me what you'd like.

To begin, I routinely place small amounts of black sunflower seeds in several places near Chip-Chip's homes. Yes, he has several. The front step, which he has excavated into his main retreat, one with a side door and another side door, seems to be his home base. He has within five yards what I assume to be his winter burrow, dug into the rocks between the juniper bushes. It is, unfortunately, right out in the open--a major blunder for chipmunk burrows and, I hope, not a reflection on his overall intelligence. Chip-Chip also has homes behind another set of steps, inside the garage, and under the back deck, where he occasionally pokes out from a knot hole and proceeds to get his drink of water (see photo with first entry). (These many homes might be considered the reason a few disgruntled people find chipmunks to be pests and nuisances and vermin, or worse, and definitely worthy of the worst possible ends.)

Because I like to see Chip-Chip stretch his legs, I place small amounts of sunflower seeds in these other locations as well. The second reason I do this is that birds or squirrels will raid a pile or two, leaving little more than shells for Chip-Chip. I don't mind feeding the other critters. In fact, I also toss out peanuts for the squirrels or the blue jays--whichever can get to them first--and put out suet blocks for the nut hatches, downy woodpeckers, hairy woodpeckers, and even the blue jays.

How much does all this cost me? None of your business. But it does get to be expensive. Chip-Chip and his fellow critters are worth the expense. Among other things, they teach you to nurture a quiet soul, to breathe in the tiny details of seemingly inperceptible movements, and to discover the semi-invisible world of often ignored creatures. You can't really appreciate the subtleties, the sounds, the shapes embedded in their backgrounds, the largely overlooked, the seemingly obvious, unless you're willing to explore a world just outside the kitchen door.

At any rate, watching Chip-Chip is easily more entertaining and worthwhile than listening to prattling political speeches. (The more you watch a squirrel or a gopher or a chipmunk, the more you wish you could; the more you watch Hillary Clinton, you more you wish you hadn't.) I would also definitely prefer spending time outside photographing dramas playing themselves out in a maple tree to destroying my brain watching American Idol--the number 1 TV show, which only goes to show that people need to be involved in creating their own entertainment, not have it dumped on them like so many pails of moldy compost. One person's opinion. One person's second person: Folks should set aside the piffle in their lives and spend at least one day watching a chipmunk or a robin or a grey squirrel or a catbird or a swallowtail butterfly or a millipede or a box elder bug or a spider in the midst of silky construction.

One day will soon turn into two . . .

Another Near Miss

If daily life doesn't raise their blood pressure and cause acid reflux, watching chipmunks, from the human perspective, can be an awfully nerve-wracking experience. Just yesterday I had to stop a car because Chip-Chip was crossing the street. (No, I’m not in law enforcement or animal control.) Well, he froze and returned to the neighbor's driveway, where he hid under an SUV until all was clear. Then he crawled through its wheel, checked out the situation--traffic-wise--and scurried across the street.

It's worth noting that chipmunks don't cross streets the way grey squirrels do. If you've ever noticed a grey squirrel, it seems wrought with indecision, starting, then stopping, turning around, then no, going forward, no, forget that, let's just stop in the middle of the street, then wait for cars to get closer, then head back toward the curb, then no, wait, stop, no, turn around, and, as cars get closer, turn around and race across the street almost all the way, then stop, still giving the cars a chance, then, assuming all goes well--which is not always the case-- continuing safely to the nearest maple tree. A grey squirrel crossing the street is indecision personified. This explains why squirrels litter streets and highways across America.

But not so with the chipmunk. Once the commitment is made, it's off to the races from the starting gun to the finish line--even if a car or some other three ton vehicle is rumbling toward it. The result may not always be salutary, but you have to admire that kind of commitment in chipmunks in general and in Chip-Chip in particular. Such commitment on occasion has me racing for the antacids and Xanax. And it explains in part why chipmunks don't live more than a year or two, maybe three at the longest. It also explains why they need to keep a continue supply of new chipmunks on the market. Chipmunks and grey squirrels pretty much have that much in common with each other and with most other little critters unregulated by local ordinances. My guess is that this state of affairs crosses most national boundaries and time zones. No matter their country of origin, little critters' reserve of good luck begins running a deficit from birth.

So I temporarily stopped the car (itself belonging to a driver long on patience.) Some observers may be annoyed by an overly sentimental intrusion upon the natural order of life and death of wild life, even that which lives in a relatively domesticated and regulated environment of a quiet neighborhood littered with "Slow: Children at Play" signs. Well, stop is not really the correct word. I flailed my arms and pointed down to what probably looked like a leaf drifting across the street, like one of several somewhat disturbed people squatting in the group home two blocks to the south and one to the east. (I couldn’t blame the driver for the erroneous conclusion.)

Chip-Chip scooted for cover under a geranium planter box, waited a bit longer, and then scampered up the driveway, more relaxed now, and then disappeared into the garden—as if a near-death experience were a daily event. Another thing about chipmunks is that they generally avoid running out in open spaces, such as avenues and boulevards and double-wide driveways, and for obvious reasons: They become easy targets. While they may be quick, their top end speed falters against that of a hawk or a cat, or, for that matter, the resident terror with the homemade sling shot two houses to the left after a left turn at the end of the street. Chip-Chip, I'm learning, is no ordinary chipmunk. In expanding his territory, he's willing to take increasingly large risks, which reveals the dare devil in him; in fact, if he would just stay home, he would always have more than enough food necessary to ever have to cross the street. Is he an explorer, a Christopher Columbus of Chipmunks? Does he have wanderlust? Or is he cruising for Ms. Chipmunk? Adventurous little soul--I hope he doesn't have a death wish.

The life of a chipmunk is precarious enough as it is. Having a death wish, for a chipmunk, is redundant.

Spring Cleaning

Today witnessed two developments in the neighborhood of chipmunks.

First, the current population seems to have exploded, doubling from earlier in the week as Chip-Chip now has a neighbor to the north. I wonder whether they've met, which could mean chipmunk conflict (chipmunks have to fight with each other because chipmunks are about the only thing other chipmunks can beat up). It could also mean an even bigger impending spike in the chipmunk population later this spring. The conflict part may still come later as they bicker about cleaning out the den and raising the pups, duties, according to research, left entirely up to the mother. (What is a baby chipmunk called anyway? I'll get back to that. I hope it's not called a chip off the old block.) In either event, I'll have to figure out a name for the northside interloper. One thing is for sure. He's a sneaky little fella, surveilling me from a hole dug along the neighbor's garage foundation well before I had the opportunity to surveil him, or her, as the case may be. Which brings up another question: Is there a way to tell the difference between a male and a female chipmunk without causing offense? (The answer is no. Male and female chipmunks look alike. But they know the difference.)

The second development helps explain why last year's population took a severe turn for the worse. Already known for their incessant curiosity, chipmunks--at least Chip-Chip--apparently come equipped with a bit of the dare devil in them. To wit: While I was closing the garage door, Chip-Chip scurried in (not out) and made it with just a moment to spare. He flew in, his little legs barely touching the ground--as if racing with the several hundred pound aluminum door as it rattled down the rails to settle on the concrete floor. It sort of makes you wonder whether storing sunflower seeds all day gets so tedious, even to a chipmunk, that they have to test themselves, seek thrills, so to speak, to get the old juices flowing--sort of like teenagers who have to race their dads' cars or get into fights or knock themselves loopy with a charged beverage, although I suspect in their cases it's more a matter of showing off. Chipmunks, I suspect, seek thrills because it's built into their DNA. Otherwise, given their lives, chipmunks would be nervous wrecks. They'd need therapy, and that gets expensive.

And what does any of that have to do with spring cleaning? You might say I couldn't think of a better title . . .

Now that the controversy has subsided

Let's review.

Chipmunks are not necessarily chipmunks. Gophers are not necessarily gophers. And both are squirrels. So I suppose you could say that they are all kissing cousins, although it would be more accurate to say that they're like feuding family members. Grey squirrels belong on top. They will chase away most birds, except for hawks, which would have a squirrel for lunch, and except for crows and grackles, which pretty much hold their own against squirrels.

Occasionally, they help each other. For instance, when the squirrel is hanging upside down from a bird feeder, it inevitably gets the thing to swing every which way, causing a substantial portion of the feed--black sunflower seeds, preferably--to scatter on the ground below. Well, the grackles, which are a bit too big to be comfortable on a lot of bird feeders, and the mourning doves and sparrows and finches and, well, you name it, feed on the loose seed nestled in the blades of grass. Mourning doves are particularly crabby about flying up and perching at feeders; they prefer to do the chicken dance on the ground. Even rabbits, which are not so good at climbing trees, will mosey along and help themselves to a stray seed or two (but, competition-wise, squirrels usually, but not always, roust rabbits away from their favorite feeding spots--even when the rabbits seem to barely notice).

But let's get back to the feuding and the fighting part. If you were a gambling person, put your money on the squirrel every time. It will easily chase off gophers, unless it's in a good mood; then it might tolerate a gopher or two--unless they enter its zone of no-gophers-allowed, which is about two feet, give or take. And the squirrel doesn't even have to bother with Chip-Chip and his kin (who have largely died off; more about that later) because the tough little gopher--I mean 13-lined ground squirrel (which is really a squirrel, just not the grey squirrel, rendering my previous comments sort of incorrect and correct at the same time)--will chase off the chipmunk. This pecking order never deviates. Chip-Chip is always at the bottom.

So if you were to bet, don't bet on the chipmunk. And before you bet, make sure it's legal in your state. I'm not advocating outlaw behavior by any means. And if you consistently lose at betting, despite what I've said, perhaps you should avoid the enterprise altogether. Put your money in CD's or Google or annuities.

Dramatic Changes Expected

Now that the storm has passed--and I actually saw Chip-Chip scampering out on the fresh snow, which means the crusty surface was strong enough to resist his prints, or he's so light that he's never had to invest in snowshoes. At any rate, today the snow will be melting soon as the temperatures rise into the sultry 50-degree range. Hey, it's Minnesota. Warmth is a matter of perspective.

The snow has also had an unintended effect on the chipmunk. Since they have nowhere else to find food, the local birds have been raiding Chip-Chip stashes. They're not shy about it either. Though birds generally compete with each other for available food, they won't hesitate to conspire against Chip-Chip to swipe his food supply. (One will fuss at him while the other sneaks up from behind to steal a single sunflower seed--which means that it's sort of a theft in slow motion.)

Being a loner doesn't always serve the best interests of a chipmunk. And the competition will only grow in numbers and species; Chip-Chip will soon find himself up against grey squirrels, surly rabbits, crabby moles, creepy mice, the occasional raccoon (although they tend not to share the same work shift), and the odd (literally) oppossum; then there are the birds, the grackles and sparrows and blue jays and crows, to name a few--but the worst ones are not competition at all. They are the predators, the neighborhood hawks and the cuddly cats with razor-like claws and prehistoric fangs--not to mention the runny-nosed toe-head with the freshly filled BB gun.

And as always, there are the speeding cars driven by surly teens, some of whom get some sort of perverse pleasure out of running down critters--and dogs and cats. You know who you are. Get some help.

Sensing the Weather

A dark-eyed junco with a look that can frighten off even the most steely nerved chipmunk

Chip-Chip must have sensed the approaching storm. I haven't seen him for two days now. But I think he's around. The food I've been dropping has been disappearing--although that's not proof that Chip-Chip has been taking it since the grey squirrels will badger and buffalo chipmunks into giving up their food quite easily.

Even the little dark-eyed juncos will square off against a chipmunk. When it comes right down to it, chipmunks aren't known for their toughness. Just about all the other little critters--with fur or feathers--have the built-in capacity to bully chipmunks.

To give Chip-Chip a fighting chance, I leave food inside the garage, where he has only the mice as competition. That's pretty much a stalemate.

Let's Set the Stage, Geographically

Chip-Chip and his companions have chosen to live in the state of Minnesota, which is in the upper midwest part of the United States.

It is now April, and Chip-Chip has been out and about for a little over a week. What woke him from his hibernation, I'll never know. (I understand that it has something to do with temperature, but around here the ground is still nearly frozen. If I were a chipmunk, I'd be reaching for more electric blankets.)

He's been so happy--or as happy as chipmunks tend to be, under uncertain conditions and the persistent threats of cats, hawks, and teenage drivers--that he's been scampering about, testing his legs, getting back in shape. He probably should have slept in. A blizzard with several inches of snow is predicted within the next few days. Chip-Chip may have to crawl back under the covers. I hope he didn't spend too much time making his bed. Life can be like that.

Sometimes, it's best to sleep as late as possible.

Info Sharing

This may be a suitable spot in my narrative to stop and ask whether you are an avid chipmunk connoisseur, not the eating kind but the observing and talking-to kind. If you like to eat chipmunks, you are hereby banned from the blog. Now leave. I'm waiting. . . Yes, I'm still waiting. You have no business here--none.

Now that that little bit of pleasantness is behind us, what I was trying to say was that if you have expertise in the world of chipmunks and would like to share that expertise--at no cost, of course--then by all means leave a comment. Don't write paragraph after paragraph. Long windedness is tedious and smacks of self-importance. If you are self-important, you are also hereby banned from this blog--and don't write a 5,000 word defense on self-importance.

And if you're a self-important chipmunk eater, you should never have stumbled upon this blog in the first place. Setting ground rules is necessary for proper blog behavior. Blogging, after all, shouldn't be for just anyone.

Now to Step Back a Little

Did you know that the domain name Chipmunk.com is currently not used by anybody. Better hurry. The cat's . . . the chippy is out of the bag. My announcement probably tripled the cost of buying that name. Sorry. Spreading information doesn't always go hand in hand with positive outcomes. Some information is better left to the uninformed.

A little History. . .

So how did the other chipmunks succumb in such short order? Well, one, which had a summer home across the street, raced across the pavement--synchronizing his speeding little paws in a directly perpendicular intersection with the balding tires of a moody teenage driver. His or her remains (the chipmunk's, not the moody teenager's) indicated that it suffered irreparable damage while the car at worst experienced a slight bump, at worst shaking loose a bit of rust or spilling what remained of a warm can of Milwaukee's Best.

Had the driver not had his radio on, he made have heard the death scream of the chipmunk, although, to date, it must be admitted that scientists have not documented the death scream of a chipmunk; perhaps their acoustical equipment is not sensitive enough or not regularly maintained. That is sometimes a problem. People don't believe in something simply because the instrumentation is not up to par. There's a lesson in that, somehow somewhat trivial, however.

It certainly doesn't change the outcome for chipmunk #5.

As for the others: Well, too much death all at once is depressing. At future points in my narrative, I'll reveal some of the ways others have succumbed. Be prepared. It's not always pretty.

In fact, if there's a basic law in nature, it's this: Little critters usually come to an unpleasant end. All right, I won't sugar coat it. Little critters usually come to a horrific, grisly, and terrifying end. Unfortunate but true . . . it appears to be a role in life (and death) that they're destined to play.

Be thankful you're not a little critter. But don't be too thankful. Life is unfair in general. People sometimes end up like chipmunks and gophers and squirrels and rabbits and raccoons . . . Here's proof. If that's too far removed, try your own newspaper or local news. Even clever raccoons get themselves into trouble from which they cannot escape.

News Flash: Chipmunk Population Takes a Nose Dive!

Chip-Chip enjoys some fresh water from a little bird bath, keeping a wary eye on the metal bird. I put the picture on a trading card. So far, no one has wanted to trade. Maybe the "Chip-Chip for President" part offended some folks' political sensibilities. Or maybe Chip-Chip has a lousy campaign manager.

During the summer of 2006, I found myself in the company of 5 chipmunks.

I don't honestly know how they all appeared at once. They may have simply been around all along and I was too oblivious to their day-to-day lives to take notice (a common problem, I'm afraid, among a lot of people). They may have been riding in the back of a truck loaded down with firewood, and when it lurched into gear, they all flew off and ended up in my front yard. They may have parachuted down from a low-flying plane in some sort of government experiment--that would account for the half-eaten chunks of paper towels and fish line bunched up in the back lilacs. Or maybe, sensing a downward spiral in their standard of living, they all packed up their sunflower seeds and migrated to my neighborhood.

Sometimes a move is good. In any event, how they showed up will always be a mystery. And that's probably how Chip-Chip and his siblings would want it.

Of course, a transition also means confronting the unknown. That 5 chipmunks all showed up at once may have created brand new problems. Apparently, that's what happened. Five soon turned to four, and well, the details are not pretty . . . nor is, for that matter, the life of a chipmunk (even one attempting to move up in life into a better neighborhood). Nevertheless, the chipmunk itself is sort of a cute little fella. Where humans are concerned, that has probably always worked to its advantage. The little critter is also a thief, true. But all wildlife are thieves, as are a disagreeable number of human beings. Proof that Chip-Chip--the last remaining one of the 5 chipmunks--is a thief and a rascal is well documented, beginning with the banner image on this page.

From this initial entry until I finally run out of ideas or energy or interest, or I'm incapacitated, or my computer breaks down, or someone talks some sense into me, I will proceed to track Chip-Chip into his second year as my tenant, including his experiences and behaviors and troubles and crises and conflicts with other little and big critters.

I will be honest about what happens, and I don't want you to feel too bad if once you get to know him you suddenly find you've come to the end of my posts. You'll probably get attached to him, as I have. And so together we'll probably both feel bad for awhile. That's because all things must come to an end. Sooner or later, the same thing will happen to Chip-Chip.

Until then, I hope you enjoy the story of his adventures.