Chippie let go

Chippie The Chipmunk

My brother Ronnie and I were nothing alike. He was good; I was bad. Curious about everything, I got into trouble constantly, and received many a switching because of Ronnie’s snitching. Occasionally, though, events worked in my favor. Such was the case with his good buddy, Chippie the chipmunk.

Wild creatures interested Dad, and if he caught one, he’d bring it home for a few days before setting it free. Once he brought home a chipmunk and put it in a birdcage.

“Boys, what shall we name him?” I suggested Monk, but Dad preferred Ronnie’s choice: Chippie.

When Ronnie tried feeding Chippie a peanut, it bared razor-sharp incisors, expanded its cheek pouches, glared furiously with beady black eyes, and made threatening chirring sounds.

“Aw, come on, let’s be good buddies,” my brother coaxed, and again extended the peanut, which Chippie swiped at with needle-like claws.

The next day Ronnie removed the cage’s lid and dropped a peanut to Chippie, who gobbled it down. An idea popped into his head … a really bad idea.

“See! Chippie has accepted me as his good buddy. I’m going to ease my hand down and gently pick him up. Then I can hold and feed him at the same time.”

Blessed by Satan with a sadistic mind, I said, “Great idea — that will prove y’all really are good buddies.”

Ronnie slipped on one of Dad’s work gloves, and confident that the chipmunk couldn’t bite through the thick leather, eased the top off the cage and reached toward Chippie, who seemed unperturbed.

As my brother’s fingers closed gently around what he thought was his good buddy, Chippie opened his jaws so wide that it squeezed his eyes shut — and clamped down! Those incisors went straight through the leather and into Ronnie’s thumb.

When my screaming sibling tried to shake loose his attacker, Chippie bit even harder. Jumping up and down and flinging his arm around, he tried desperately to free his hand from the enraged animal.

Finally, satisfied that he had exacted as much pain as possible, Chippie let go. When he did, he and the glove went sailing across the room, knocked over one of Mama’s prized lamps, and thudded ominously into the wall.

Then I heard Dad’s boots clumping up the back steps. I looked at my squalling brother and thought … Oh boy! Your misery has just begun. Dad looked at the empty cage, shattered lamp, and deceased chipmunk, still attached to the glove.

“Which one of you did this?” he roared.

As he removed the dreaded belt, Ronnie begged, “Please don’t whip me, Dad. Look what Chippie did to my thumb!”

His pleas went unheeded, as Dad laid on the stripes. Then we heard Mama wail and saw her glaring at the ruined lamp. Her willow switch picked up where the belt left off.

By the time his punishment was over, Ronnie’s fate was about as bad as Chippie’s demise. Never again did he mention his good buddy, Chippie the chipmunk.