I
did what anyone would do. I ran down the
hall and slammed the door, trapping it inside.
[Spoiler Alert: this story does not have a happy ending for the chipmunk.]
An
hour or so later, I grabbed my cat Wumpus and shoved him into the laundry room
for a close up and intimate visit with Chip (or maybe it was Dale). As I tried to relax in a deep tub of hot water, I was serenaded with
background music of continual and plaintive meowing. Wrapped in my fleece robe, I released Wum, and he dashed directly to
his food bowl.
Later
that night he sniffed at the slot beneath the door. Yes, Mister, you were supposed to do something about it. It seems he is quite good at bringing
chipmunks in through the (temporary and now dismantled) cat door from the porch
in order to frolic with them around the house, but, like oh so many men, once
he’s had his fun, he loses interest.
The
next day I emptied my suitcase and watched the development of quite a mound of dirty clothes. My laundry room is more of a large closet really, so putting the
clothes in the machine while standing on tip top hoping a small rodent wouldn’t
run over my feet was not acceptable. I
headed to Home Depot where they do not
sell anything called a chipmunk trap. I
thought an old-fashioned mousetrap (they
make some that are huge) would be the
most effective thing, but I was afraid I’d snap off a finger baiting it or a
toe walking around it. Instead, I bought
a set of those enclosed rat traps where the animal dies tidily inside -- blech. I added a couple of peanuts to the bait
(thank you, Google), tucked them around the washer and dryer and let the
laundry build up two more days.
Okay,
eventually you need clean underwear, right? And the peanuts in the traps remained
steadfastly untouched. Hey, when I’d
gotten home it was dark; I was tired; I was hungry
-- maybe I imagined the whole thing. I opened
the door and stuffed in the first load. Let the chip(munks) fall where they may. My hope was that if the thing was in there,
it would venture out, Wumpus’ interest would be rekindled, and the final
skirmish would begin. My fear was that
Chip (or Dale) would burrow into the wallboard and bear a litter of adorable
babies that would infest my house.
Again, blech.
Two more days went by. Wumpus occasionally
sniffed around the area of the laundry room, and now the laundry was at least fitting inside the hamper. I draped a damp dishcloth over the
washer to dry out until I got to it. The
room developed that damp, moldy dishcloth smell. I ran the appropriate load. The smell persisted.
I
craned my neck behind the washer and dryer.
Nothing. I took a flashlight and
looked underneath, a scary process lest something run out at my face, but all I
saw were wayward fabric softener sheets.
I rarely use softener sheets, but apparently when I do, they scamper
underneath the washer and dryer to lead silent yet festive lives. I dragged the dryer out a foot or so (all the
room there is). Nothing. I dragged the washer out a foot or so,
cringing to look. Nothing.
Denial
is a great place to live, and I had all but decided, indeed, there was no little
chippie, but the the smell persisted into day five.
*Big sigh* There was no way it
was the aftermath aroma from wet dishcloths.
More surveillance.
YIKES! Was that a piece of string? Nope, it was a tail! BLECH.
When I’d moved the washer, Chip (or maybe that was Dale) got dragged out
and pushed under the vacuum cleaner. Now
I could see a little tail curling from under the brushes. At least he (or she) didn’t get cut in half
when dragged under heavy machinery. *Involuntary
shudder at the thought of having to clean up chipmunk parts* Fortunately a body bag was readily made from an
inverted plastic baggie, scooping and turning it right-side-out so he (or she) slid in.
Crisis
over, and smell and body disposed of, I went to watch TV. The thought sat in my head that a dead
chipmunk had been desiccating away in my laundry room for a minimum of three days. For about 20 minutes I managed to ignore the
fact that it was time to wash the laundry room floor. I don’t know how often you wash your laundry
room floor, but I cannot remember the last time I did so. I mean, all I do is pad
around in there in my socks while stuffing clothes into the machines; how grimy
can it get? All I can tell you is, those
softener sheet dancing around under there, they kick up a lot of dirt.
Anyway,
my laundry room is now certifiably clean.
My clothes are washed and put away, and Wumpus walks around, tail held
high, as proud as if he actually accomplished something wonderful.
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