Mike Moser "I Say" Published Oct. 21, 2005

Demon-seed chipmunk gains freedom

If demons could get inside pigs and possess them in the Old Testament, then why wouldn't Satan get inside the mind of a chipmunk?

I believe the story about demons driving pigs over a cliff and I believe the demon-seed chipmunk that made my life a living hell for three days was likewise possessed.

Chip and Dale are cute.

Wild banshee chipmunks running amok in my house are not.

It all began last week when wife Susan innocently enough announced there was a chipmunk in the house. The prevailing theory is that one of our three arrogantly independent house cats dragged the animal inside and, well, it quit playing 'possom and escaped.

The cats are always hunting in the yard and bringing their trophies to our doorstep. I have learned to look out before exiting in the morning so as to step over the garden variety of field mice, moles and birds that the cats capture, play with and eventually dispatch to that happy outdoors setting in the sky.

Much to my chagrin, the habit of leaving the sliding-glass door partially open when we are home was born to let the felines come and go as they please. If we don't, they bellow like air-raid sirens until we finally conclude that they want to be let outdoors.

The saying that dogs have masters and cats have staffs is true. They have trained most in our family quite well. I choose to ignore them for the most part and we get along with mutual distrust and contempt.

Whether the demon-seed chipmunk was brought in as a kitty trophy or whether the varmint let itself in really doesn't matter. What mattered was that it was in the house.

I must confess here. I don't like varmints in the house and I certainly don't like varmints that look like dressed up rats or mice. So I was less than pleased to learn of our new house guest, but decided to take it in stride and treat it like the cats .... just ignore it.

This didn't sit well with Susan who loves her cats but decided she didn't care for the cats' choice of playmates.

So she did what most wives do under such circumstances. She called me at work.

Now I have never been real good at this. The chipmunk is in my house. I am at work. What am I really supposed to do? Then the light bulb flickers on in my already data filled head. She is seeking manly advice. No problem.

"Well, leave the doors open and maybe it will run back out," I offered.

The advice wasn't well received but it did end up being an acceptable compromise until I could finish work and go home.

Meanwhile, the three stooges, better known as The Cats, are doing their best stooge and keystone cops impersonation. Sliding into my $5 grandfather clock, sliding past the kitchen door into the bookcase, sliding into the kitchen island, as they chased the poor chipmunk from room to room.

Then it happened. They chased it upstairs. That's where the bedrooms are.

I arrived home to find it in disarray, looking as I imagine it would if Sherman had ransacked on his march to Georgia.

"Well, did the chipmunk escape?" I asked innocently enough.

The glare was all I needed to answer my foolish question.

For the next three days it was upstairs, downstairs, running through the room while watching "Everyone Loves Raymond" reruns, appearing at the most inopportune times. What started getting under my skin was the way the demon-seed chipmunk ran past the open front door and up the stairs with cats in tow.

"It doesn't want to escape," I concluded.

On the third day, Susan, who was off work that day, declared she was not going to go through another day chipmunk olympics. She ordered Prue to make it top priority to apprehend the glorified rat and throw it out of the house.

It only took a couple of hours, but when the crazed chipmunk came down the steps and slid out of grasp of reaching paws into the safety of the grandfather clock, Prue sprang into action.

She pulled all the cushions off the couch and love seat, used pictures waiting to be hung on the wall, and made a maze from the clock to the open front door.

The varmint had two choices. Use the door or become kitty lunch.

When last seen the chipmunk was spotted scampering across the front yard, through the ditch, across the yard, and straight toward Jay Colton's house.

I am still trying to determine if that is why Jay moved last week.

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Mike Moser is the editor of the Crossville Chronicle. His column is published periodically on Fridays.