Friends were heading off on holiday and left us the keys to their country cottage. You know, in case we wanted to barbecue out in nature or do some weeding in the vegetable garden. There could be countless reasons why having keys to someone else’s cottage might come in handy.
This time, the keys were needed specifically for weeding. Everything had been planted and needed regular care, including pulling up uninvited weeds and digging around the plants.
Before leaving, they mentioned that there was an animal there that occasionally visits. We were told to be kind to it and maybe feed it. With this mysterious advice, they departed for the distant shores of Hawaii.
Initially, I was puzzled by this peculiar neighborly relationship. If it was an animal, why should we feed it? However, knowing my friends’ good nature, it made sense they’d be feeding something around there. Such are the times, you know. Maybe it’s an animal, but a decent creature nonetheless?
So, whether we were to water and weed or also feed this so-called animal, it was all the same to us. If feeding was necessary, we’d do it. Perhaps it’s some sort of guardian?
The first evening, this creature appeared. After a call to Hawaii for clarification and description, we confirmed that yes, this was the animal in question. More specifically, its name was actually “Animal.” It arrived promptly at eight, surveyed the yard, and then settled in the corner, whistling a mournful tune. A song of a creature disillusioned by life. It was after this that we called to clarify its identity.
“Animal” turned out to be a chipmunk that regularly visited their property, demanding food with its plaintive whistling. When asked who gave such a small creature such a grand name, our friends awkwardly exchanged glances and mumbled something about it introducing itself that way.
Nevertheless, Animal showed up daily, whistling for food like a wandering minstrel singing for his supper.
I’d seen chipmunks in the woods and in cartoons too, but a chipmunk named Animal visiting and performing just for me was something I hadn’t heard of before. Perhaps, like in that joke, it was told, “Since not enough squirrels are around, it’s your turn to approach humans”?
On the first evening, with a generous spirit, we piled a heap of sunflower seeds by the porch. Upon seeing the pile, Animal forgot its tune and frantically started packing sunflower seeds into its mouth, trying not to let his face bulge too much.
As we learned, the concept of “too many sunflower seeds” didn’t exist for Animal. He could teleport any pile in under ten minutes, returning for more with cheeks sunken like those on a strict diet, but soon plumping them out to a size that would make Samantha Fox envious.
Animal feared nothing—not even running out of seeds, which would render life meaningless. Thus, Animal ensured they never lingered long by the porch.
… To keep phones from being a distraction, we placed them in a pile on a table outside. They were always close enough to hear if anyone called.
… As usual, in the evening, demonstrating impressive punctuality, Animal appeared by the porch. He scratched disdainfully at the wooden deck and then sniffed his paw for some reason. Sitting back, his mood was decidedly lyrical as he scanned the invisible sheet music, picking up the top note and whistling his “Song of Hunger.”
At this moment, the phone left outside rang. I was in the house watching TV, and didn’t hear Animal’s call. But I did hear the phone.
Meanwhile, my wife, who had heard both Animal and the phone, figured the chipmunk took precedence, assuming I could answer the call. With these understandable thoughts, she poured a heap of seeds before Animal. The bold troubadour immediately paused, grabbing the first handful from the pile. But he had no chance to put it in his mouth. Just as he opened his endless maw, I appeared on the porch, and without bothering with the steps, I leapt right off. As I flew over the five steps, I felt an unusual thickness in the air, an impending sense of something extraordinary.
Animal felt it too, but a second later. During that time, my bulk landed with a thud on the opposite end of the plank, where the fluffy musician was preparing to enjoy his hard-earned bounty.
The seesaw effect was astonishing. Animal, still with his mouth open and hands full of seeds like a market vendor, ignored gravity entirely and shot upward, disappearing into the low-lying clouds with a sorrowful whistle.
I vaguely noted, funny how chipmunks are flying today, must be rain coming.
… The earth greeted our furry friend ceremoniously a few seconds later. Where he’d been and what he saw, nobody knew. But judging by his wide eyes and fluffed-up tail, he’d seen much, and it was all terrifying. Landing softly, he darted under the porch like a commando, vanishing.
And there by the porch lay the untouched pile of seeds, a symbol of how fleeting art can be.
– “He won’t come back,” was the unanimous opinion. After an unplanned trip to the stratosphere, who would?
It was strangely somber. I sat by the pile of seeds. He’s not coming back, that’s for sure. Automatically, I picked a large seed from the top, grabbed it, and crunched loudly.
An indignant whistle emerged from under the porch. There, spreading his legs like a sumo wrestler before a match, stood Animal, swaying and glaring with angry, beady eyes. “Not for you!” his eyes declared about the seeds, his gaze revealing much about me.
And I still marvel at where chipmunks learn such expressions!
