Unwanted Guest

A rodent by any other name.

I'm not a country boy. And, in fact, although I live in a rural part of Michigan-- that would be  most of the state-- I live in enough of a town to consider myself city, not country. Nevertheless, I drive past farms with their beautiful hip-roofed barns, their silos, their collection of beautiful old wood outbuildings and I think that might just be really cool. Maybe a horse or two.

It's easy to have such thoughts zipping by at 62 miles an hour on a country two-lane road.  It's easy to think that when you live in a house with central air…..and a paved driveway. It's easy to think that until you hear something in your garage go "cheep." I thought I had heard it the night before. Next day Tam was sure she had heard it.  City or not we live in a neighborhood with more tunnels than a Mexican border town. And I'm not talking' roadways here. I'm talking' Theodore, Simon, and Alvin. Right. Chipmunk tunnels.

Chipmunks are the animal equivalent of those beautiful farms: They look cute and cool and seem really nifty until one decides the woodpile in your garage is exactly the spot he was thinking would provide the best winter hangout ever. What ensued after our little discovery can only be described as fitting for YouTube but, thankfully, went unfilmed.

In the next 30 minutes, while the ribs smoked on the grill we moved the woodpile, pretty well cleaned out the side garage, and sent the little bugger on his way. Not, however, before chasing the bastard around and across the garage, around and under every bike, wagon, and assorted piece of junk in the garage. Not, however, before he went scurrying across the garage and between Tam's legs at what seemed like 50 miles an hour.  (That girl can jump!) Not, however, before dragging our stealthy Golden Retriever out into the storage room into which our little Alvin had escaped. (And I do mean drag. Our beautiful expensive purebred hunting dog showed about as much nerve and interest in tracking our mini-beast as would a 16 year old girl dressed for prom.) Not, however, before leaving the corn to boil on the stove for those 30 minutes. (With salt and butter it did make a pretty tasty gum-like substance.)

I'll still enjoy driving by those area farms at 62 miles per hour. But I've just been reminded why I'll never own one: A chipmunk in the garage is bad enough. God help me if I were to have to confront a raccoon, skunk, or possum while walking out to the car. There would be bloodshed. And it would probably be mine.