How to Catch a Killer Chipmunk/Round 1

It’s 3:17 p.m. and I’m on my friend Heidi’s porch, calming my nerves with a stiff concoction of unknown ingredients. I’m in self-imposed exile from my home because of an unwanted guest – a killer chipmunk.

You’re thinking, “There she goes again -- telling tall tales.”

I’ll just tell you this: If you had seen the said chipmunk, you’d be sitting on Heidi’s porch nursing a strong one, too, and we’d be exchanging how-we-survived-the-psychotic-rodent tales.

This is how it all came to pass:

Hubby left the front door open for all of a minute so we can bring in a new chair. When we went inside, I saw a small moving object in the middle of our den. Being quite the observant type, I astutely determined that it was not a remote-controlled car.

Puzzled, I stood looking at this thing, which stared at me with its beady eyes. “What’s that?” I yelped.

The chipmunk scurried through our kitchen down the stairs to the basement, to my home office, where ALL MY STUFF LIVES!!!

Hubby and I scampered after the little critter which hid in Hubby’s workroom, home of three tools. I tried trapping the chipmunk with my large piece of cardboard, but the sneaky critter got away.

We found it by our sump pump where I thought, “OK, end of the road, little fella.”

I made my approach, stealth-like, a veritable ninja. I lowered my cardboard so I could trap it in the corner. But I was not prepared for what happened next.

The four-inch chipmunk launched its body at my cardboard shield. All my working out with JJ at the Y, wasted, useless against the sheer strength of this crazy critter.

I shrieked. Yes, I admit it, I shrieked, and I AM NOT A SHRIEKER!

The chipmunk found a chink in my trap-the-critter-with-the-cardboard plan, darted by me, tramping over my Teva-sandaled feet.

It was awful. Just awful.

Now you're thinking, where was Grace's Hubby when all this was going down?

Good question. Hubby was stunned by my anti-chipmunk ninja techniques that he was rendered useless. Laughing, he watched helplessly as the chipmunk dashed away.

Hours later, I’m still suffering from post-chipmunk-traumatic syndrome.

I called the Humane Society, talked to Renee, who told me that I could rent a live trap for $5/week with a $20 deposit. Before she could hang up, I was reliving my tale in person to her.

She said, “It’s OK, it’s just a little scared animal. It’s more scared of you.”

I stammered, “No, you weren’t there. You didn’t see its cold, cold eyes.”

She smiled, nodding her head as if humoring some nutcase off the street.

I could feel my agitation rising. “Look! I love animals! That dog over there! I love that dog! If I didn’t have a chipmunk in my basement, I’d take that dog home!”

She calmly showed me how to use the live trap without snapping off my fingers and sent me on my way.

Now I’m parked on Heidi’s porch, mustering up my courage to face down the dangerous creature.

If y’all have any ideas on how to get this chipmunk out of my basement, out of my life, please send them my way.