Schrodinger's Chipmunk vs. Rat-In-The-Box
I'm going to blame all this on Rick. We both smoke in the garage; we both let the cats into the garage, but he is the only one who gaps the garage door. Just a couple inches--enough to let the smoke out but not the cats. Unfortunately, it lets the chipmunks in.
Loads of chipmunks live in burrows under the sidewalks in this apartment complex. I figured they avoided our garage because of the cats, Sylvia and Paulie. Then Sylvia chased one into the house. Thankfully, it was evicted with no bloodshed and only minor inconvenience. "Eh, that was a dumb one," I thought, "it'll never happen again."
I was right until yesterday, when one decided to crawl into our garage to die.
Between one smoke break and the next, a chipmunk decided to sprawl out in the middle of the cement floor. No cats had been out there for at least an hour, and as I was studying the body for toothmarks or mussed fur, I discovered the chipmunk was only apparently dead. I absolutely hate finding dead things that move. Cause of apparent death was decided to be poison, indicated by it's bleary eyes and pristine fur. I guess it could have been rabid. I beat on the floor by it's head with a broom to see if it would come fully to life and attack, then moved it to the bushes with a dustpan.
Later that night, as I was telling Rick how we would NEVER, EVER leave the door open EVER AGAIN, I decided to check on the (presumed) corpse. Rick convinced me to leave it alone right then, but I had to look this morning. There was nothing in the bushes. So, maybe it's alive. Maybe it crawled somewhere else to die. Who knows.
In my personal rodent experience, the chipmunk was less horrifying than the time a rat jumped out of the garbage can behind our house in California, right onto my chest. I had one hand full of trashbag and the other hand full of garbage can lid, so all I could do was scream while the rat hung onto my shirt between my boobs. Thankfully, it dropped and ran, shrieking in fear itself. After that, I never assumed the trashcan was safe.
Loads of chipmunks live in burrows under the sidewalks in this apartment complex. I figured they avoided our garage because of the cats, Sylvia and Paulie. Then Sylvia chased one into the house. Thankfully, it was evicted with no bloodshed and only minor inconvenience. "Eh, that was a dumb one," I thought, "it'll never happen again."
I was right until yesterday, when one decided to crawl into our garage to die.
Between one smoke break and the next, a chipmunk decided to sprawl out in the middle of the cement floor. No cats had been out there for at least an hour, and as I was studying the body for toothmarks or mussed fur, I discovered the chipmunk was only apparently dead. I absolutely hate finding dead things that move. Cause of apparent death was decided to be poison, indicated by it's bleary eyes and pristine fur. I guess it could have been rabid. I beat on the floor by it's head with a broom to see if it would come fully to life and attack, then moved it to the bushes with a dustpan.
Later that night, as I was telling Rick how we would NEVER, EVER leave the door open EVER AGAIN, I decided to check on the (presumed) corpse. Rick convinced me to leave it alone right then, but I had to look this morning. There was nothing in the bushes. So, maybe it's alive. Maybe it crawled somewhere else to die. Who knows.
In my personal rodent experience, the chipmunk was less horrifying than the time a rat jumped out of the garbage can behind our house in California, right onto my chest. I had one hand full of trashbag and the other hand full of garbage can lid, so all I could do was scream while the rat hung onto my shirt between my boobs. Thankfully, it dropped and ran, shrieking in fear itself. After that, I never assumed the trashcan was safe.