My daughter has a track record of teasing me and with her misattributed grin accompanying her remorse, my first response was to ask, “You’re kidding, right?” And then it dawned on me, why was there a chipmunk in the house in the first place? Time for a Cape Cod. And time for twenty questions because that’s what I do. How do you know it was a chipmunk? Was it a flying squirrel? (Maybe we could keep it as a pet.) Was the tail flat? Did it have black stripes? How do you know it was a baby? How big was it? Was it injured since she’d saved it from the cat? And, most importantly, what made you bring it inside? Why not put it in a bucket? I was trying to understand her rationale. I couldn’t. This was stupid. Sometimes there are no appropriate synonyms for stupid.
Now it’s not uncommon for wildlife to venture inside, usually House Wrens and the occasional skink, whenever I leave the door cracked for the dogs and cat to go and come or just to listen to the rain. Just that morning there was a bird flying around my bedroom. I watched it perch on my fan and on the window valance. On my treadmill and the computer desk. And I think I dozed off when it flew back outside. My husband says our house is something out of Robinson Caruso. (Side note: I confess I don’t know much about Robinson Caruso. I’d like to at least get partial credit for knowing about Davy Crockett? He wore those raccoon hats, right?) My husband teases that he’s going to wake up one morning with a raccoon hovering over him. That would be our luck, too. And inside I ponder that adventure. Wouldn’t that be a tale to tell? I’ve learned to watch what I wish for because a simple thought can manifest itself true.
Nearly twenty-four hours have passed and there hasn’t been a single sighting of that chipmunk or that distinct chirping sound. Please don’t let there be a smell.
To be continued…