By Joel Warner
By Michael Roberts
By Alan Prendergast
By Michael Roberts
By Michael Roberts
By Amber Taufen
By Patricia Calhoun
By William Breathes
If you're lucky in this life, you'll experience that magical moment when you fall in with a group of people whose core beliefs are so compatible with your own that you immediately know you have arrived home.
"Well well...fellow chipmonk gruge holders," wrote Sassy Rebel42, an Oklahoma gardener, on my favorite website recently. "The little buggers are not as harmeless as many paint them to be. For many years I have been battling the tunnels and holes in my garden pathways as well as the beds. Much to my regret I fell as one more of their tunnles colapsed under my weight. Now I am laied up with a broken leg."
Undaunted by his injury, Sassy Rebel42 sat on his porch in a cast, picking off chipmunks in a supreme act of payback. "32 in the last 3 weeks," he bragged. "I am a regular Annie Okley."
His was just one story on GardenWeb.com's anti-pest online message board. Using a combination of public venting, confessional and appalling grammar, readers wrote in daily with tales of chipmunk havoc that were not for the easily disgusted.
Which I am not. I gave up being squeamish about dead chipmunks long ago. And the truth is, I didn't "stumble" on the website. I went looking for it, and I was happy to find it. I had my reasons.
My wife is a gardener. Over the years, she has fought deer, elk, crappy soil and a brutal climate. But none of it prepared her for the wholesale destruction wrought by chipmunks, who can seem cute -- until you know different.
Every morning, she looked out our kitchen window and assessed the damage. "Okay, wait," she'd say. "I planted that huge rose bush yesterday, and it's gone." Within days, the lettuce was mangled and the protective cages she put around the oregano had been toppled. Before the first day of summer, the entire garden was a loss.
One day she left the kitchen door open and a chipmunk skittered into the house and made a beeline for the dog-food bowl. It was the final straw, although by then the bale was plenty light. Our domicile had been breached.
Luckily, this is a Make My Day state. "I want you to kill them all," she said. "Make it hurt."
The website confirmed my darkest fears. The damage caused by the striped rats was, of course, annoying. "I, too, became a victim of the trecherous and deceitful, the taunting and destructive, yes, the vicious CHIPMONK," one southerner seethed.
But it was expensive, too. House foundations, garage doors, deck supports, entire walls -- all had been savaged by the degenerate Alvins. Everyone, it seemed, had a story, usually accompanied by an eye- popping price tag.
"Heard back from the Volvo shop," wrote Sondagsakane, of Illinois. "Chipmunks have eaten part of my emissions control system -- $625 to drop the gas tank to get at the damage. Not under the warranty, obviously. It's coming out of their scruffy little hides."
We scrambled for solutions. Nothing worked perfectly, although one technique seemed efficient: a sort of drywall-bucket Thunderdome, half-filled with water, its surface sprinkled densely with sunflower seeds. Animals walked a plank covered with a few teaser seeds and then plunged into what they assumed was a bonanza bucket of food. And drowned.
As word spread, the response among frustrated gardeners and homeowners was nothing short of euphoric. One Midwest gardener was thrilled to find a chipmunk struggling in five inches of water the very day he set his trap. It seemed to bring out his inner Dirty Harry: "I went inside and got a 7-11 Super Big Gulp 44 oz. of water and asked [the chipmunk] if he needed more water. He nodded yes so I gave him a big gulp. Now he is comfortably resting in a plastic bag in the garbage can soon to be joined by more of his buddies."
I tried the bucket trick myself and began harvesting a few dead chipmunks every day. It was a nice start. But was it sport?
"You can't shoot chipmunks," said Todd Malmsbury, spokesman for the state's Division of Wildlife. "They're a non-game species."
"But what if they're destroying your garden? Or a Volvo?"
"But they're rats," I persisted. "You can kill rats, right?"
"Yeah, they're rodents," Malmsbury said. "You can trap them."
"And you can kill squirrels?"
"Yeah, they're game animals."
"But chipmunks aren't?"
"Nope," he said. "Look, I gotta go. Call an authorized trapper."
Dave, a local pest-control expert, may have been "aware" that chipmunks were not, technically, legal game. But he didn't care, either. "I'd shoot 'em," he recommended. "They're just varmints." Besides, he added, "I just euthanize all the stuff I catch, anyway."
Another local licensed trapper was equally sympathetic. "Chipmunks -- always a problem," he sighed.
"What if I shoot them?" I asked.
"No cop, no stop, I reckon."
Wal-Mart may have stopped selling handguns, but in the giant retailer's eyes, pellet pistols are still a legitimate tool of self-defense. A jet-black Crossman Repeat-Air with red-light sight cost just under $50. As I confided my intentions to my friends, it became apparent that the prospect of a chipmunk hunt had intriguing social possibilities, as well.