It’s a banner year for chipmunks.
A mild winter and abundant acorns and other nuts last fall meant stockpiles for underground orgies. No need to leave their harems due to hunger and get picked off by a hungry hawk.
My strawberries ripened to perfection, and then I saw the tunnels. As I got closer I noticed the backside of each berry was eaten. And with all those antioxidants they’re getting from my strawberries, these chipmunks will live forever.
Turns out I am not alone. Everyone I talk to this summer has a chipmunk remedy or two. Here are a few:
One neighbor fills a bucket with water to within two inches of the top. She floats sunflower seeds on the top to cover the water. Then she props a small board from the ground to the top of the bucket with a little of the board hanging over the lip of the bucket. Think chipmunk diving board. Finally, she sprinkles a few sunflower seeds at the base of the board. Eager for the seeds, the chipmunks “walk the plank” and drown. Not for the faint of heart though; you have to empty the bucket.
And there are some very long commutes in our neighborhood...by chipmunks.
One-way, hopefully.
Another neighbor commutes an hour to the Connecticut hills. His commute began after he excavated his wet basement to get the water out, only to find that newly mined chipmunk tunnels brought water back in.
The state would classify him as an SOV (Single Occupant Vehicle), but he shares his truck with a dozen chipmunks at least once a week. The number of people commuting may be down, but if the state counted chipmunks, the numbers would be up. Way up. Turns out there’s a lot more carpooling going on. Who knew?
Several miles north, a lawyer friend lives in chipmunk nirvana. Oak and hickory trees surround his house. Every morning he loads his car with legal briefs and chipmunks. He drops them five miles from his home before he heads to his law office. It’s a crowded commute. One week he kept a tally — 35.
If he had a group of litigious chipmunks he could have some serious trouble. Or he could make some big bucks. . . especially if he charged by the head instead of his hourly rate.
Turns out the only time chipmunks aren’t trouble is when they’re commuting. But they’re a lot better than most people. They’re quiet occupants; they don’t take up much room; they don’t smoke (well not unless they escape into the engine compartment); and they don’t argue about which radio station the driver should to listen to. Plus, no matter where you drop them off, they never complain. I don’t know about you, but I can’t say that about most of my former dates.
We’ve got the ultimate deterrent— a cat. I didn’t go looking for a cat, but when one wandered in to our yard one winter — drawn by the smell of hibernating chipmunks — I remembered my ravaged Hosta bed — more tunnels than Stalag 13.
This cat turned out to be one focused hunter. He’s a chipmunk-a-day cat. I’ll put up with the trouble of a cat, the main trouble: I see a garden; he sees a giant litter box, if he’ll keep up with the chipmunks.
We celebrated the shrinking chipmunk population, until my husband noticed the cat was importing chipmunks from the neighbor’s yard.
And the longer he played with them, the more likely they were to get away. Yesterday, he was playing his favorite game — toss the chipmunk — then he took a break.
The stunned chipmunk got up and limped towards a hole in our stonewall. Our confident cat just watched. When the chipmunk was about 10 feet from the stonewall, the cat rose and nonchalantly headed after him. But the chipmunk dashed and dove into the wall. The cat lunged, but too late.
Turns out the chipmunk faked the limp. I guess possums aren’t the only ones that play possum. Chipmunk: 1 – Cat: 0.
With the imports, is there a net gain? A win or a loss? We’re still not sure.
That night a vehicle stopped across the street and opened it’s tailgate. I heard the clanging of metal, so I walked over to investigate. A man was stooped over a Havahart® trap.
“Hey, what was that that just scurried into my yard?” I asked.
“Chipmunks,” he said.
“Gee, we have plenty of those already,” I told him.
“Oh,” he said and drove off.
God only knows where those chipmunks came from. The good news is that at least the license plate wasn’t from out of state. The bad news is one of them looked familiar. He had a limp.