Friends were heading off on vacation and left me the keys to their summer cottage. You know, for the occasional barbecue in the great outdoors or maybe to tend the garden with its assorted useful veggies. You never know when you might need keys to someone else’s cottage, right?
This time around, the keys were needed specifically for “weeding.” Since everything was sown and planted, it was essential to regularly nurture the garden by pulling out unwanted weeds and keeping the shrubs well-tended.
Before they left, they casually mentioned, “There’s this one little creature that visits occasionally, don’t upset him. Feed him if possible.” With that cryptic message, they took off for the distant shores of Cornwall.
I was initially puzzled by this neighborly arrangement. If it’s a critter, why should we be feeding it? But knowing my friends’ kind nature, it made sense that they might have been feeding something. Maybe it’s a rascal, but a good one?
Anyway, whether we’re watering and weeding or watering, weeding, and feeding a critter, it’s all the same task for us. If it needs doing, we’ll do it. Perhaps the critter acts as a sort of guard?
The first evening, the critter showed up. After a call to the faraway Cornish coast with some description and clarification, we confirmed that this was indeed the critter—whose name was Critter.
Critter arrived exactly at eight, surveyed the garden, and settled in a corner to sing a melancholic song. It was a tune of an entity wronged and disillusioned by life. That’s when we called to clarify its nature.
Critter turned out to be a chipmunk that regularly visited their garden, demanding a meal with his doleful whistle. When asked why such a small chipmunk had been given such a grand name, the friends awkwardly suggested that he introduced himself that way.
Regardless, Critter came to their cottage daily, hoping to sing for his supper. Just like a street musician singing for sustenance.
Until then, I had seen chipmunks in the forest and cartoons but never heard of one visiting and serenading in person. Maybe, as in a joke, he was told, “Since there are not enough squirrels, it’s your turn to go to the humans.”
On the first evening, in our generosity, we piled a mountain of sunflower seeds near the porch. Seeing the heap, Critter abruptly stopped his song and eagerly began to stow seeds in his mouth, attempting a minimum coefficient of disturbance.
Experience proved that “a large pile of seeds” was an unknown concept for him. Any pile would vanish within ten minutes. He’d return for more with cheeks as hollow as a diet book testimonial, but after a few minutes of frantic work, his cheeks would bulge proudly, rivaling those of Sam Fox.
Critter feared nothing and no one. His only fear was that he would run out of seeds, and life would lose its meaning. So Critter never let them sit under the porch for long.
To avoid distraction, we’d pile our phones on the outdoor table—still close enough to hear a ring.
As usual, one evening, demonstrating punctuality wonders, Critter appeared near the porch. After scratching the wooden deck with disdain, he sniffed his paw and sat solemnly, gazing intently into the distance. His mood that evening was purely lyrical, and scanning imaginary notes, Critter grasped the top one and plaintively began his “Song of Hunger.”
Just then, the phone on the table outside began to ring. I was inside watching telly and didn’t hear Critter’s signals. But I did hear the phone.
Meanwhile, my wife, who heard both Critter and the phone, decided that the chipmunk was the priority, and I could answer the call. With this fair reasoning, she emptied a heap of seeds before Critter. The brazen minstrel immediately stopped and gobbled the first portion. But he didn’t manage to put it in his mouth. Just as he opened his bottomless maw, I appeared on the porch and, without wasting time stepping down the stairs, leaped straight off.
As everything drifted slowly beneath me, I sensed the air thickening, and a strong premonition of something unusual flooded me. Critter had a premonition of the unusual too, but only a couple of seconds later. By then, my bulk crashed onto a board on the opposite end where the furry bard was ready to savor his laurels.
The seesaw effect was astounding. Critter, still with his mouth wide and paws full like a market granny, defied gravity and shot up vertically, vanishing into the low clouds with a sad whistle.
I vaguely noted how peculiar it was that chipmunks were taking off nowadays—must be a sign of rain coming.
The Earth ceremoniously welcomed its son seconds later. Where he had been or what he had seen remained unknown, but judging by the wide eyes and a puffed-out tail, he had seen much and terrible things. Landing softly on the ground, he scurried like a commando into enemy territory, disappearing under the porch.
A heap of untouched seeds remained in front, a testament to the fleeting nature of art.
“He won’t come back,” was the shared sentiment. And who would return after an unsanctioned trip to the stratosphere?
A wave of sadness washed over me as I sat beside the seed pile. No, he wouldn’t return. Absentmindedly, I picked a large seed, grasped it, and crunched loudly.
An indignant whistle came from under the porch. There stood Critter, paws spread like a sumo before a match, swaying slightly and staring at me with angry, beady eyes. “No way you’re getting my seeds!” his eyes declared, along with other thoughts about me.
And I still marvel at how chipmunks know such words.
