I SEE DEAD CHIPMUNKS.  In fact, I have yet to see a live one this
spring.  The cats catch them, carry them
onto our small lawn, and have their way with them.  The chipmunks don’t stand a chance.  Dismemberment ensues.  Once in a while, the cat has this bizarre
urge to contribute to the family larder by bringing the little critter into the
house.  They often do this with birds and
mice, as well.  We get up in the morning
and discover the deadly evidence, which isn’t as bad, actually, as when they
bring ‘em in while they still have sufficient life left in ‘em to get away and
hide under the couch, behind the ‘frig, or some such similar hard-to-find
place.

The poor little chipmunks are so cute.  Think Chip & Dale.  They are brown and white with a black stripe
down the center of their back and an adorable twitching tail.  That is, twitching until the cat catches
‘em.  I remind myself that they are,
after all, rodents.  When you say the
word “rodent” you must make a face of disgust and sneer with the pride and superiority
of a superior, biped species. 

It would be false concern for me to create the
impression that I actually care about the chipmunks.  I have seen them eating my flowers, surely a
felony punishable by whatever happens when one of my cats catches one.  Let them eat…grass, or rabbitbrush, or some
such overly abundant green growth. 

Finally, I have observed that, when I find the
remains of these chipmunks, compared to the dead mice that show up with ghastly
regularity, there is always more left of the former than the latter.  This tells me that, not only are the
chipmunks pests to be caught and disposed of, but they don’t even taste as good
as the little mice.  Bon appétit,
kitties.