Singing to a Chipmunk
My old leaf blower bellowed louder than a jet during takeoff, so I preferred a rake for collecting the leaves deposited by winter’s winds. That sunny spring morning, I had filled and emptied the wheelbarrow more times than I cared to count. The quiet corner under the deck and beside the basement door always collected a huge pile, and through the winter, it served as a dry, hawk-free residence for mice. Disposing of every dead leaf offered the best protection against unwelcome houseguests. But rather than hand-picking the leaves out of the decorative rock, I grabbed my earplugs and tolerated the blower for the final cleanup.
With the job complete, I gladly set the beast aside and removed my earplugs as a solitary bluebird’s song drifted across the lawn on a timid breeze. After a deep, lilac-scented breath, I decided I’d remove the protective straw from the chrysanthemums in the nearby garden. Behind me, I heard a rustling and expected to glimpse a very confused mouse. Instead, a frantic chipmunk was trying to escape from the fence of nylon netting that I’d carelessly tossed under the stairs. No doubt the blower scared him, and he ran to hide. I had to free him.
I dashed into the house for gloves and scissors, knowing he was bait for the neighborhood’s marauding cat. Outside once again, I knelt beside him. He scolded me with high-pitched, terrified chirping, and the brown and white stripes of his dorsal fur stood on end. His frantic little body lurched forward and side to side, but he was hopelessly trapped. Reaching into the net with my left hand, I grabbed him the way I held birds for banding. His spine lay across my palm, with his neck between my first two fingers while my thumb and other fingers wrapped around his belly. Compared to the furry masses that regularly scurried across the lawn, his body seemed tiny. His pounding heart felt like it would burst through his ribcage, and his entire body shook as he gulped for air.
“It’s okay, I’m just going to cut the net,” I said, hoping a soft voice might calm him. Brahms’ lullaby was the first song that came to mind, so I hummed slowly, barely audibly, and examined his predicament. He’d managed to entangle his neck and all four feet.
The net around his neck disappeared into his winter fur, but he wasn’t choking. It certainly didn’t stop him from voicing his complaints. But just to be sure, I cut that strand first and continued to hold his head firmly to avoid a rodent bite. Slowly, one by one, I snipped the netting from his feet. His little legs lay motionless and then jerked in terror and attempted escape. Still humming, I finally cut the last line and examined him closely to be sure he wasn’t bleeding and had no broken bones. Except for his traumatic shaking, he seemed to be unhurt.
I finished the verse and gradually loosened my grip. He raced across the lawn and disappeared into the woods in an instant.
Disappointed that I had caused the chippy such an ordeal, I immediately put the obnoxious leaf blower and the life-threatening fence in the garage where they belonged. I smiled. I’d never held a chipmunk before, and I was fairly certain he’d recover. It’s not every day I get to save an animal’s life.
A few days later, I planted a flat of red petunias in the chrysanthemum garden to provide a summer contrast to the yellow lilies. When I finished, I watered the tender plants with the nozzle set on a wide, gentle spray. I concentrated on my watering task to make sure I didn’t miss any new plants, but when I had nearly finished I noticed a chipmunk standing on his haunches less than a foot from my spraying circle. He lifted his head to look at me and held his front feet in the perfect cartoon pose. To my amazement he stood absolutely still. I’d thought chipmunks exemplified perpetual motion.
Careful not to spray him, I looked beyond him to find an array of about twenty chipmunks scattered across the lawn, all silently standing on their hind quarters in exactly the same pose. Imagine the courage of standing before a creature a thousand times your size.
The chipmunk closest to me started chirping and bouncing his head up and down like a talking head on a news broadcast. His fat little cheeks and bright eyes seemed so serious, so pompous, I wanted to laugh. But instead I decided that he was introducing me to his family and thanking me for freeing him. I listened courteously. When he finished, he stood motionless and silent.
“You’re welcome,” I replied, feeling giddy and honored to be trusted by creatures who would normally fear me. Even though I had inadvertently caused the problem, I was thanked and forgiven. How could chipmunks perform a more humane act?
After a fleeting moment, they all dropped to the ground and headed for their homes, which very likely surrounded mine.
Copyright © 2008 by Kate Smith
