In April, before and between the snowstorms, Chip-Chip was a regular fixture in the front yard, on the sidewalk, and in the garage. Now he seems scarce. But I know he's still around. The peanuts continue to disappear from the lid of the sunflower seed container. My guess is that's the work of Chip-Chip (or, as mentioned, the theft of steroid-crazed mice).
I also know that he's still around because of another mysterious event. His burrow opening has been covered by rocks. At first, I thought squirrels may be trying to seal him in as just another one of their efforts to say "Welcome to the Neighborhood!" So I removed the rocks. Wouldn't you know it, the next day the rocks were piled even higher over his burrow opening. What was happening?
After a few moments of clear thinking, I dismissed the squirrels as the culprits. They may be mean, but they are essentially lazy layabouts. Bullies, yes, but ones with short attention spans. (I wouldn't be surprised to learn that most grey squirrels suffer from a severe form of attention deficit disorder.) Not only wouldn't they return to cover the opening, but they certainly wouldn't put in the effort to block it with even more rocks. That's just not in squirrels' characters--not their modus operandi. Most of the time, squirrels dig holes around in the garden, just deep enough to disrupt emerging string beans, and then leave them unattended. Why, they don't even have the gumption to cover up their holes--and in my book, that makes them lazy and irresponsible, and really, really annoying to gardeners who would prefer to eat their string beans in a nice sauce than to have to keep planting them.
Squirrels are like visiting grandchildren. Cute at first. Amusing. Lots of energy. Full of antics. Then lunch time and dirty faces and crying and runny noses and tantrums loud enough to destroy neural connections in your prefrontal lobe, the part that inhibits tearing your own hair out, and then you look at your watch--every twelve to fifteen seconds--and wonder why their parents are already three hours late in picking them up. Or does it only feel like three hours?
Still, I don't know who has been covering the chipmunk burrow opening. Knowing the who would help explain the why. But I can guess. It's now early May, the time of rebirth and rejuvenation. The trees are budding, the birds are nesting, the crocus and tulips are blooming, and the Prom is consuming the minds of glandular-driven teenagers. Maybe, just maybe, the burrow covering is extra, temporary protection from unfriendly critters, a barrier for those littler critters hidden within and unable to defend themselves. Chip-Chip no longer crosses the street or races against the falling garage door. He no longer poses for pictures or hangs out on the front steps. Other than becoming more conservative and reclusive, Chip-Chip has also shown a dramatic change in eating habits. A serious daily craving for peanuts now is depleting my supplies, and yet the sunflower seeds remain untouched. And all this means?
Chip-Chip may be having babies.
If I'm right, to be polite, I'll have to quit referring to Chip-Chip as a he.
After a few moments of clear thinking, I dismissed the squirrels as the culprits. They may be mean, but they are essentially lazy layabouts. Bullies, yes, but ones with short attention spans. (I wouldn't be surprised to learn that most grey squirrels suffer from a severe form of attention deficit disorder.) Not only wouldn't they return to cover the opening, but they certainly wouldn't put in the effort to block it with even more rocks. That's just not in squirrels' characters--not their modus operandi. Most of the time, squirrels dig holes around in the garden, just deep enough to disrupt emerging string beans, and then leave them unattended. Why, they don't even have the gumption to cover up their holes--and in my book, that makes them lazy and irresponsible, and really, really annoying to gardeners who would prefer to eat their string beans in a nice sauce than to have to keep planting them.
Squirrels are like visiting grandchildren. Cute at first. Amusing. Lots of energy. Full of antics. Then lunch time and dirty faces and crying and runny noses and tantrums loud enough to destroy neural connections in your prefrontal lobe, the part that inhibits tearing your own hair out, and then you look at your watch--every twelve to fifteen seconds--and wonder why their parents are already three hours late in picking them up. Or does it only feel like three hours?
Still, I don't know who has been covering the chipmunk burrow opening. Knowing the who would help explain the why. But I can guess. It's now early May, the time of rebirth and rejuvenation. The trees are budding, the birds are nesting, the crocus and tulips are blooming, and the Prom is consuming the minds of glandular-driven teenagers. Maybe, just maybe, the burrow covering is extra, temporary protection from unfriendly critters, a barrier for those littler critters hidden within and unable to defend themselves. Chip-Chip no longer crosses the street or races against the falling garage door. He no longer poses for pictures or hangs out on the front steps. Other than becoming more conservative and reclusive, Chip-Chip has also shown a dramatic change in eating habits. A serious daily craving for peanuts now is depleting my supplies, and yet the sunflower seeds remain untouched. And all this means?
Chip-Chip may be having babies.
If I'm right, to be polite, I'll have to quit referring to Chip-Chip as a he.
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