Chipmunk war

Iwatched two of them from my kitchen window chasing each other around the garden. One of them sat on a warm rock, rubbed his little paws together, then picked a cucumber leaf to eat.

I shook my head.

I don’t remember seeing so many chipmunks when I was a kid in Little Rock.

I grew up in Colony West with the woods and creeks a budding subdivision provides, and I never once stumbled upon a chipmunk. Otherwise, I would have tried to catch it.

That’s what boys do. I’m sure girls do as well, but boys have a uniquely occupying and time-consuming fascination with outsmarting wildlife.

We had a bee farm when I was a kid. Not a hive, just caught bees put in a big yellow container filled with picked flowers and covered with an old window screen. My mom made us let them go at night.

We caught crawdads, making a homemade aquarium that stunk before night fell. Something about chlorinated water.

Turtles didn’t stand a chance in the era before shell painting was a felony. I’d tattoo my name on a shell and wait a week or two and go looking. My neighbor would find the turtle first and paint an expletive under my name.

We caught snakes and a bird or two that happened to fly into the garage.

I don’t remember a single chipmunk. Now, they seem to have overtaken Little Rock. My porch is sagging thanks to chipmunks digging. A huge tree is leaning, thanks to chipmunks.

I stuck a garden hose in a hole to see if I could scare them off and make the place uninhabitable. I was sure I’d see water bubbling out of the mineshafts in my yard. Nothing.

The hose ran. Their tunnel system vast. Impressive.

I asked my pest control service to drop poison for them. Asking that question makes me a Neanderthal because chipmunks are on a do-notkill list with pest companies. Who knew?

I set a trap in my front yard. I came out one morning to a skinny little chipmunk with big black eyes sitting right next to it like he was waiting for me. We stared at each other a few beats.

He leisurely reached his paw into the trap, never breaking eye contact. He lifted a piece of the cracker bait and put it in his mouth.

I swear he chewed it slowly, looking at me the whole time.

I used a smoke bomb. Nothing. I covered the holes. Laughable.

I’m trying to live in peace with Little Rock’s wildlife, even the ones I never knew were here growing up.

Where did they come from? Were there stowaways on a Murray Lock and Dam barge? Did some kid prank me with a chipmunk dropoff?

I know what you’re thinking. There’s much more to worry about in this beautifully faulted city, and I agree.

But I think if I can figure out to live in harmony with these critters, there’s hope for any polarized community.