Yesterday, as I was about to get in the truck and run out for some Chinese take-out, Chip-Chip jumped up into the wheel well and disappeared into the bowels of the engine. Worried that he’d get in the fan belt or diced by the radiator fan, I popped the hood and searched for his whereabouts. I didn’t find Chip-Chip, but I did find a half-eaten peanut and some old sunflower seed shells scattered on the engine mounts and on top the air filter cover.
Somewhat satisfied that he’d returned to the garage or garden, I slowly backed out of the driveway. A lingering anxiety made me uncomfortable, however, as I wondered whether a litter critter stowaway was accompanying me down the street to the Chinese take-out place. (If he made it all the way there, I thought he’d deserve a serving of Moo Goo Gai Pan or Chicken with Cashew Nuts—if nothing else, he should have liked the cashews.)
After my supper of about 30 mixed vegetables and an ounce or so of meats, I relaxed on the back deck and soon discovered that Chip-Chip was alive and well—and that he had a new friend. Yes, the total chipmunk population has now increased to three, and the new one, though a little skinny and something of a runt, is probably the tamest one so far. When I called to it, the little critter popped out of a hole, looked at me for a while, and then sat up on a chunk of wood. I dropped a peanut in front of my new acquaintance; it stuffed the peanut whole into its mouth and disappeared again.
This might be a good time for some factoids about chipmunks: Unlike most other wild critters, chipmunks are actually drawn by the human voice. I don’t know why, but they are. Though they are semi-tame, chipmunks are also extremely skitterish. If you turn your head too fast or cough or say “dang” too loudly, they can go from zero to sixty in approximately a quarter of a second. On hard surfaces, in fact, they can spin out like a NASCAR driver, showing off for the crowd in the stands. They can escape most situations, having the uncanny ability to disappear into an opening no larger than a Kennedy half dollar. Chipmunks are also hard to predict. Sometimes, they’re around most of the day. Then they’re not around at all. Sometimes, their routine varies. You practically have to request a schedule to know when they’re going to show up next. Which leads to the last factoid: Chipmunks don’t provide schedules.
The third chipmunk appeared again, perching on the edge of a cedar pot that held a newly planted rose. As I watched it root around in the peat moss, I noticed that it had a white patch on its hind leg. This chipmunk, this third chipmunk, was easy to identify, and as I continued to watch it, I started to wonder what to call it. Patches came to mind. But then again it had only one patch. I dismissed the idea, not wanting to be factually incorrect. Patches, I mean the third chipmunk, wouldn’t like that. So what about Patch? No, I didn’t like that name, either.
As good names eluded my imagination, the third chipmunk stretched to reach a thorn on the rose cane and promptly bit it off and ate it. Strange, I thought, a chipmunk that likes to eat thorns. Then it stretched up high and nibbled at a bud, its stomach clearly showing. I now knew that the third chipmunk was a girl and that its name would be tied to its somewhat odd cravings.
Somewhat satisfied that he’d returned to the garage or garden, I slowly backed out of the driveway. A lingering anxiety made me uncomfortable, however, as I wondered whether a litter critter stowaway was accompanying me down the street to the Chinese take-out place. (If he made it all the way there, I thought he’d deserve a serving of Moo Goo Gai Pan or Chicken with Cashew Nuts—if nothing else, he should have liked the cashews.)
After my supper of about 30 mixed vegetables and an ounce or so of meats, I relaxed on the back deck and soon discovered that Chip-Chip was alive and well—and that he had a new friend. Yes, the total chipmunk population has now increased to three, and the new one, though a little skinny and something of a runt, is probably the tamest one so far. When I called to it, the little critter popped out of a hole, looked at me for a while, and then sat up on a chunk of wood. I dropped a peanut in front of my new acquaintance; it stuffed the peanut whole into its mouth and disappeared again.
This might be a good time for some factoids about chipmunks: Unlike most other wild critters, chipmunks are actually drawn by the human voice. I don’t know why, but they are. Though they are semi-tame, chipmunks are also extremely skitterish. If you turn your head too fast or cough or say “dang” too loudly, they can go from zero to sixty in approximately a quarter of a second. On hard surfaces, in fact, they can spin out like a NASCAR driver, showing off for the crowd in the stands. They can escape most situations, having the uncanny ability to disappear into an opening no larger than a Kennedy half dollar. Chipmunks are also hard to predict. Sometimes, they’re around most of the day. Then they’re not around at all. Sometimes, their routine varies. You practically have to request a schedule to know when they’re going to show up next. Which leads to the last factoid: Chipmunks don’t provide schedules.
The third chipmunk appeared again, perching on the edge of a cedar pot that held a newly planted rose. As I watched it root around in the peat moss, I noticed that it had a white patch on its hind leg. This chipmunk, this third chipmunk, was easy to identify, and as I continued to watch it, I started to wonder what to call it. Patches came to mind. But then again it had only one patch. I dismissed the idea, not wanting to be factually incorrect. Patches, I mean the third chipmunk, wouldn’t like that. So what about Patch? No, I didn’t like that name, either.
As good names eluded my imagination, the third chipmunk stretched to reach a thorn on the rose cane and promptly bit it off and ate it. Strange, I thought, a chipmunk that likes to eat thorns. Then it stretched up high and nibbled at a bud, its stomach clearly showing. I now knew that the third chipmunk was a girl and that its name would be tied to its somewhat odd cravings.
I named it Rose.
Meanwhile, Chip-Chip, maybe sensing my focus on my newfound chippy friend, had wandered off in the day lilies and didn’t return. Or maybe he wanted a break from Rose. Breaks are good, even where chipmunks are concerned.
Later, Chipper finally came out from under the neighbor’s garage and collected the peanuts I had left for him. And that made me wonder about something else: Would Chipper meet Rose? Would Chip-Chip become jealous? Was there a brawl in the making? Would Rose’s loyalties be strong and steadfast? Or would she prove to be, let’s say, as fickle as her cravings for . . . well . . . for rose thorns?
As for Chip-Chip, I hoped that he wasn’t sleeping in the truck.
Meanwhile, Chip-Chip, maybe sensing my focus on my newfound chippy friend, had wandered off in the day lilies and didn’t return. Or maybe he wanted a break from Rose. Breaks are good, even where chipmunks are concerned.
Later, Chipper finally came out from under the neighbor’s garage and collected the peanuts I had left for him. And that made me wonder about something else: Would Chipper meet Rose? Would Chip-Chip become jealous? Was there a brawl in the making? Would Rose’s loyalties be strong and steadfast? Or would she prove to be, let’s say, as fickle as her cravings for . . . well . . . for rose thorns?
As for Chip-Chip, I hoped that he wasn’t sleeping in the truck.
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