As we are moving into a new season, I can see the world around me waking up. My daffodils are sprouting, the birds are back to their playful selves, and I can feel parts of my own soul coming back to life after a long winter-full rest.
I am reminded of Dale. It was this time last year that he took over our spring...
He came to us by a neighbor. She knocked on my door, holding a little box.
“I found this baby chipmunk on the sidewalk,” she said to me. “He’s barely alive; I think he’s injured. I thought you could try to help him.”
My neighbor knew that I had no experience in rodent rehabilitation, but she also knew I’m resourceful, and before I could deny this truth, my 11-year-old daughter overheard our conversation and ran to the door, losing her ever loving shit.
“Yes! Yes! Of course, we will! Right mom? We’ll try to save him, right?” She yelled as she approached us at the door.
So obviously I had no choice but to panic-google rodent rehabilitation centers and when that came up as not a real thing at all, I researched how to save the little fucker myself. Then I drove to an exotic pet store two towns over to buy squirrel formula because that is the closest thing the earth has to chipmunk formula.
We named him Dale and began the treatment plan of syringe-feeding him every two hours.
He lived in a plastic Tupperware bin that we took with us to soccer games, church, a camping trip, and anywhere else that would take over two hours.
My daughter and I woke up together during the relentless night feedings because, believe it or not, feeding him was a two-person job.
Throughout all of this, the thought did not escape me that maybe these efforts were silly. After all, my family eats meat, and our cat brings us home the kidneys of slaughtered chipmunks all the time.
But that’s the thing about being human. We have the knowledge of how precious life is. Even the little lives that have a survival rate of 1–10 in the wild. Probably less in my yard.
I wasn’t going to eat Dale, so it was my responsibility to save him. Because I could. So that’s what we did.
It only took 3 weeks. Dale grew quickly, and before we knew it, he was eating solid foods, burrowing in his blankets, and crawling around the napes of our necks while we watched TV.
Naturally, the 11-year-old wanted to keep him, but once he started escaping his Tupperware home, we knew it was time. We forced back tears and held onto to hope as we let him go into the woods behind my house.
As long as we live in this house, whenever we see a chipmunk in our yard, we say, “Hi, Dale!” Just in case.
Yes, I’m totally aware that my cat may have killed him by now. But maybe not. Maybe he got away. Either way, I’m glad he had the chance.