“It’s only a chipmunk,” I say, trying to assuage the situation. “Think of Alvin and Simon and Theodore. Think of all the Grammy Awards they’ve won with their songs.”
I actually have two favorites on my list, Remember “Witch Doctor?” And, of course, there’s the “Chipmunk Song,” which has always remained a part of our musical heritage. And, in case you are unaware, the originator happens to be Ross Bagdasarian, an Armenian.
“But this chipmunk don’t sing,” she rebutted. “He’s invading our premises and I want him gone immediately. The priest is coming for dinner and the last thing we need around here is a chipmunk on the rampage.”
Understood. But how do you lure a critter out of the house if you don’t know his whereabouts? So, with a broom in hand, I went room from room, slamming the bristles like an Elmer Fudd cartoon.
“Here Alvin. C’mon Alvin. Vamoosh Alvin.”
It was an exercise in futility. No chipmunk. All I got for my sweat was a laggard ant. “Peace be with you,” I said.
I recall my grandmother once telling me, “A pest never goes where he is told until he dies.” The woman was a true philosopher and her words of wisdom always came true. I couldn’t wait for eternity. This chipmunk was becoming a nuisance.
So I put a plan into effect. Perhaps I could outmaneuver this renegade. If it’s food he’s after, why not oblige him? Why not invite him to dinner?
He could be part of our hospitality. What harm could the animal do? Eat us out of house and home?
I must tell you. My back yard is a haven for God’s creatures. I have birds chirping and feeding. I have squirrels scampering to and fro. And the chipmunks roam freely, into the ground, up the trees and into my bird seed. They can be scavengers, but that’s the nature of this beast.