Chipmunk versus Human: A Stare Down

I’m pulling weeds after the rain. It’s a good time to do it; the ground is moist and loose and forgiving. The rain-pocked soil releases the offending, invasive stalks without resistance. One firm tug and the weeds—root and all—are plucked into oblivion.

Now, I don’t ‘hate’ weeds, but they annoy the heck out of me when they supersede the success of my preferred fruits and blossoms. I’m forgiving, unless they attempt to hijack my wild garden. But today, I’m astonished once more at the growth rate of these aliens; what wasn’t apparent yesterday has already gone from toddler to teenager in size. So I’m angled over them, knees bent and arms dangling vertically. I suspect I look like a great ape, bum in the air, swaying and searching with my fingers and opposable thumbs.

Something moves in my peripheral, a blip, a micro-tremble at best. Suddenly, I’m a cat, jerking my head from side to side to determine its source. The rest of my body freezes; what is it…a bug, a mouse, a snake? I’m ready to bolt if need be.

My eyes zero in to no more than two feet in front of me. Perching on top of a limestone rock is a chipmunk, in perfect profile, as still as a statue.

I hold my breath. He’s a cherubic little creature, with his racecar stripes the only current indicator of his speed potential. Why does 21 miles per hour appear so much faster when a chipmunk runs it? I ponder for a second; they have two speeds, stone-like and zippy, right? I’m in silent praise of his perfection, the little rascal. Brown-bead eyes in a pointy, tiny face. He holds his tiny claws to his chest, each digit no thicker than the very tip of a fork tine. I dare not move, lest I send him scurrying.

From my vantage point, I can see his chest rise and fall with every inhalation. His heart pounds 350 beats per minute. I can’t count that fast. And so I gaze.

Instead of zipping away, he turns his body and gaze to me, the gangly, slow-paced human ape who is apparently captivated by him. He’s staring me down. Head on. Guns a-blazing. Not really, but it’s clear it’s a battle of who’s going to make the first move.

Granted, I’m still doubled over, knees bent, arms hanging lank from my horizontal shoulders. Bum in the air. And remaining as still as humanly possible. But my shoulders are starting to burn, and my lower back isn’t used to holding a right angle above my legs. It’s silently screeching, imploring me to stand up. But of course, I can’t. I am in position. It’s a standoff.

I blink.

He blinks.

He wipes his tiny wee face with his palm. Perhaps he’s rubbing his eyes, attempting to determine whether I’m an apparition.

He puffs out his cheeks.

I puff out my cheeks.

And I make the universal ‘tsst, tsst, tsst’ noise that apparently works on tamer chipmunks but not this guy. He’s not falling for my ‘we’re friends now’ gesture. He remains suspicious.

He rubs his hands together like Mr. Burns from the Simpsons. I’m on notice. He looks like he’s planning the great escape. Game over, I think, that’ll be alright with me. My knees are locking up and my glutes are on fire.

Instead, he chitters at me. Looks me square in the eye and chit-chit-chits.

Which makes me realize my attempt at speaking chipmunk was left wanting. My attempt at camaraderie was lost in translation.

I chit-chit back at him.

He glares. What did I say? Is it possible to offend a chipmunk?

We stare at each other. Human ape versus rodent chipmunk.

It’s time to stand up, I think. One last stare down.

Suddenly, a shatter of lightning blazes the sky and thunder resounds angrily above us.

We leap in unison; I almost fall over him and his limestone perch.

As the torrent unleashes, the game becomes a sprint. We both hightail it; me, with my crouch-weary bones limping toward the back door, and chipmunk at 21 miles an hour, scooting down his hole.

Game delay; safe at home. Meanwhile, I’m going to practice my chit-chits and bring peanuts to our next bout.