I have a stalker. He’s been following me for a while now. Lurking around outside my house. Waiting for me by the door. He’s on the smaller side, but very aggressive. His conversation is limited and so annoying. The times I’ve locked myself inside, too afraid to go out? Numerous. Especially this summer.
The fact that my stalker is a chipmunk does not diminish the fear factor in any way. If he decides to hang out beside my flower pots in the front yard, I’m not allowed to sit on the swing. He gnashes his little teeth and makes threatening lunges at my ankles while emitting loud ‘chipping’ sounds. He gets first pick of the Saskatoon berries in my back garden. It’s only when he’s had his fill that I’m allowed anywhere near. He even lets his bird friends eat first. I can hear him laughing at me as they fly about, picking away at my berries.
The really sad thing is that last summer, this same chipmunk was in love with my neighbor, Gerry Clark. I remember it perching on the front deck of his house, cheeping love songs and giving Gerry googly eyed looks. He captured it and drove it out to the bush, but it found its way home, its love undiminished. When Gerry left town for a few weeks, the chipmunk pined.
For some reason, it blamed me. It started when we ran into each other on the sidewalk in front of my house. I think I stepped on its little toes, though we both screamed and threw our hands in the air. I live in fear that this mad little rodent will make good on his threats and bite me in the ankle. Or, even worse, run up my pant leg. To prevent this, I wear a lot of dresses.
I’m going to start acting braver. Walk around aggressively, like I actually own the place. Which we do, Mr. Chipmunk. It’s ours! Having said that, I’m still tucking my work pants into my socks, just in case. Maybe Gerry will come over and lure him away again. He seems to have what it takes.