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Cheryl Hughes: A Chipmunk By Any Other Name

 

My husband, Garey, is from Alabama.  He moved to Kentucky in 1974 when he and his dad moved part of their coal mine operation to the Jetson area of Butler County.  Garey and I met at a restaurant in Bowling Green, where I was working my way through school.  We were married in the fall of 1975.  Our first home was a 12x70 mobile home that also doubled as the office for the coal mine.  We were in a rural area near barns that held feed for farm animals, and where there’s feed, there are going to be varmints.

One evening before I went to bed, I made a big batch of oatmeal cookies.  I put some in the cookie jar and the rest in a large ziplock bag on the kitchen table.  When Garey got up the next morning, I yelled to him, from my cozy spot under the covers, to take the large bag of cookies on the kitchen table to work with him.  He yelled back that there was no large bag of cookies on the kitchen table.  I climbed from my cozy spot beneath the covers, muttering to myself about how the man couldn’t find anything, and padded in my sock feet into the kitchen, only to discover that there really was no large bag of oatmeal cookies on the kitchen table.  I looked into the cookie jar just to make sure I hadn’t dreamed making the cookies—nope, hadn’t dreamed it.  I looked under the table, in the cabinets, the oven, and the refrigerator, but they were nowhere to be found. 

I fixed Garey another bag and told him I’d find the others eventually.  I was going to fix vegetable soup for dinner that evening, so I went to the closet that I had converted into a pantry in the room adjoining the kitchen for some tomato juice.  When I opened the door, there was the half-eaten bag of oatmeal cookies on the bottom shelf.  I slammed the door shut and ran for the kitchen phone—this was pre-cell days.  I knew Garey planned to make a stop at Joe’s Equipment Supply that morning, and I wanted to catch him before he left.  When Joe answered the phone, I told him I needed to speak to Garey immediately.

“Garey,” I said, “I don’t know what is in this trailer that’s big enough to climb up onto the kitchen table and drag a bag of oatmeal cookies into the next room and up under the closet door, but I’m not sticking around to find out!”

Garey responded like he always does when I get upset, “Cheryl, you are totally over-reacting.”

“Okay,” I said, “But if you come home and find my feet sticking out from under the closet door, you’re going to be really sorry.”

“It’s probably just a chipmunk,” he said, “I’ve seen a few playing around the trees in the back yard.  Just calm down, and I’ll take care of it when I get home.”

Now, you know and the fifty-seven-year-old me knows that it wasn’t a chipmunk, but the twenty-two-year-old me believed him and went on about her day, unalarmed by the idea of a cute little chipmunk nibbling away on oatmeal cookies in the pantry closet.

That night, I went to church, and when I got home, I found Garey in the kitchen floor with his rifle, lying in wait for the little critter. 

“Did you see it?” I asked.

“Uh huh,” he said.

“Was it a chipmunk?” I asked.

“Uh huh,” he answered, “But I don’t think he’s coming back out tonight.”

At this juncture in the story, I need to point out that Garey had obviously never read the verse in the Bible that says, “Be sure your sins will find you out,” because the next day, when I looked out of the window to see what our little Dachshund, Missy, was raising such a ruckus about, there, next to the back door, was the biggest rat I had ever seen.

I watched as Missy and the rat did battle.  There was a plastic antifreeze jug, about a quarter of the way full, leaning against a tree, and as Missy started gaining the upper hand in the fight, the rat sunk its teeth into the jug and used it as a shield between himself and the dog.  (Garey didn’t believe me either until he picked up the jug the next day, and antifreeze trickled out around two perfect teeth marks.)  Missy finally won out by seizing the rat and shaking the life out of him.  She spent the next thirty minutes parading the rat in front of the back door, where I stood singing her praises.

When Garey got home that evening, I confronted him with the evidence.

“I just didn’t want you to move out, honey,” he said, defensively.

“If I ever do move out,” I said, “I’m taking Missy with me.  You and the chipmunks can fin for yourselves.”

We never had any more problems with rats.  I guess Missy’s reputation kept them at bay.  I know I felt a lot safer having her around.

 

 

 

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