Why am I surprised? Of course the chipmunks are back, sneaking about under cover of night, hopping up into the pots on the porch, nibbling with abandon on the roots of my carefully coordinated floral display. They wrecked havoc last year and, sure enough, they’re doing it again this year. Damn chipmunks. I hate them.
Last summer, I declared an all-out war on them, a kind of suburban search and destroy mission. All summer long, I tried one “critter ridder” remedy after another, solutions suggested by Google experts who sure sounded like they knew. Glowing testimonials appeared on screen like the Holy Grail: “Since spreading the red fox urine around my begonias,” one woman wrote, “I haven’t seen hide nor hair of them.” I rejoiced with her.
The bounty of suggestions included, but were not limited to: mothballs, cayenne pepper, cayenne pepper with baby powder, bloodmeal, chestnuts, hot pepper wax, used kitty litter, owl decoy, poison gummy worms, traps from $17.99 to $54.99, a five-gallon bucket of water with sunflower seeds floating on top, an Attack Wave Ultrasonic Pest Repeller, Deer Off, cat hair, dog hair, even my own hair, and of course, the aforementioned red fox piss.
The ones I tried—and there were many—proved useless. Instead of an end to harassment, what I got was an odor so strong and so offensive that I feared it would stop the mailman from coming up the front walk.
I spent a lot of time scooping clean the vile smelling potting soil, then replacing it. I also spent a lot of money on new shoots, replenishing the mangled, half-chewed blooms to fill in the gaps left by their hearty appetite. They wouldn’t stop. I couldn’t stop. I was not about to let them mess up my artwork.
So, here I am, once again, confronted with those sorry stems lying mutilated in their pots. Day after day, I gather them up from the dirt and toss them over the porch with a “fuck you” and a sigh of exasperation. This year, I am not in the mood to fight. It’s too hot.
Lately, I’ve considered letting nature take its course. Of letting the chips—and chipmunks—fall where they may. In truth, I am not pleased at how the situation has deteriorated into a battle of wills. I regret my part in the old “man over beast” paradigm , which according to Ecclesiastes 3:19, does not end well for either of us. With Rodney King’s recent passing, I am reminded that I should at least try to get along.
With some hesitation, I make one more run to the local Garden Center for six more containers of orange impatiens, replacements for the victims of the most recent big-tooth rampage. To my surprise, I spot a product I’ve never seen before. It is a bottle of overpriced granules that proclaim right on the label, Gets Rid of Chipmunks. Money Back Guarantee.
“Does it work,” I ask the not-so-young clerk. He doesn’t know. “Nobody comes back to report,” he says.
“Oh, I’ll be back,” I tell him. Yes, I’ll be back, because, at that moment, I know my inner chipmunk won’t let me give up. When it comes to stubborn, Alvin and friends have nothing on me. “I’ll either be back for my money and some more plants,” I tell him, “or”—ever the optimist— “for another bottle of this miraculous stuff.”
Sixties Chick 