A Stranger in the House

The suitcases were packed and loaded into the car.  Bags of snacks and toiletries and sun block were stuffed into the backseat.  Sharon and I were set to leave for a little Orange Beach getaway.  We like to go before schools leave out and the rates go up and the massive crowds gather. 

One last check through the house to make sure electrical appliances are turned off, doors locked, faucets not running, security system enabled.  All was good.  We excitedly opened the door to the stairs leading down to the garage….and there it was, sitting about halfway up the steps, looking us square in the face.  

It was a chipmunk.  Our Trussville home is surrounded by them.  One of them must have wandered in through an open garage door.  They are as cute as can be, until they’re in your house.   

I’m not sure who was more shocked, us or the chipmunk.  Upon seeing us, it darted down the stairs and took a hard right into the finished basement room.  Not quite knowing what to do, we followed it in and closed the door.  Maybe we could trap it and take it back outside.  What followed must have resembled one of those old Keystone Cops chase scenes.  Sharon grabbed a soft bag which had contained toys we saved for when the grandkids came over.  I had a small open cardboard box.  For roughly the next hour we ridiculously ran after this little guy, bumping into each other and knocking each other down, as it scurried from under the sofa to under the love seat, to behind the tread mill, to behind the TV stand, and then back under the sofa. 

That little fur ball was lightning fast, able to shift direction at right angles, so it had no problem evading our pathetic efforts.  Clearly there was too much operating space.  So we figured if we could force it to flee into the small, connected bathroom it would be easier to corner.  It took a while, but we finally managed to herd it into the little restroom.  Now we’ve got him!  We closed the door and quickly had it trapped behind the toilet. 

When I poked at it, the creature shot into Sharon’s soft bag, which scared the Jesus out of her.  She screamed and lurched backward.  It looked like the squirrel scene from the “Christmas Vacation” movie.  Somehow the chipmunk managed to leap out of the bag, land on the vanity, knock over a bottle of hand soap, and jump back down to the floor.  The doorknob to that bathroom has never closed securely, and apparently one of us had accidentally bumped the door ajar in all the chaos, enabling the animal to escape back into the big room. 

Frustrated and exhausted, we trudged after it, resigned to starting the process all over again.  But now there was no sign of the little troublemaker.  We overturned every piece of furniture, shook every nook and cranny.  Nothing.  We remembered that the squirrels and chipmunks loved to feast on the birdseed dropped to the ground by the sloppy birds who dine at our feeder.  Sharon laid out birdseed in the middle of the room, hoping to attract the rodent out into the open.  Still nothing.  Was it gone?  Did it crawl inside the sofa and get trapped amongst the springs and cushions?  Might it have gotten through the small crack at the bottom of the door and left the room? 

By this time, we were hours late leaving for our trip.  There was no time to go to a store and find a trap of some sort, then wait for the animal to be captured.  That could take days, and there was no guarantee it would even work.  Eventually, we just gave up.  We decided to stuff blankets into the cracks under the doors to the upstairs and the finished room downstairs in an attempt to at least confine the little pest.   It was time to admit defeat.  Just go to the beach and hope for the best. 

But the drama wasn’t over yet.  As we entered the garage, Sharon saw the chipmunk scurry across the floor and under my car.  Given renewed hope, we immediately opened both garage doors, and went about shaking and rattling everything in the basement, trying to flush it outside.  We never actually saw it leave, but once again there was no trace of it anywhere.  As we got in the car and pulled out into the driveway, I chose to believe the unwanted visitor had gleefully sprinted out into the yard to rejoin his family.  Sharon was not so sure. 

The beach was beautiful and relaxing as always, but it was hard not to wonder if we would return to Trussville to find our home chewed and clawed into shambles.  After four days, we arrived back, pulled into the garage, and began to cautiously look around the basement.  So far, so good.  No apparent damage.  But when Sharon opened the door to the stairs, she let out a gasp. 

There, at the base of the steps on the floor, lay the chipmunk, stiff as a board.  Apparently, it had gotten back into the stairwell, but was trapped there and perished.  I disposed of it with a shovel, all the while feeling a curious mix of emotion.  I should have been overjoyed and relieved that we no longer had to worry about a chipmunk in the house.  But somehow, looking at his sad little eyes, his buck teeth, that cute little double black stripe down his back, I felt a strange sadness that one of God’s beautiful, small creatures had to meet with such an unpleasant end.   

I may never again be able to watch a Chip ‘n Dale cartoon without tearing up a little bit.