The Robe

This morning we were waiting for the coffee to finish perking. In the meantime, we had wandered outside to see how the garden had faired after last night’s heavy rain and rather angry wind storm. One potted fichus tree on the back deck had been blown over but now been righted again. Then, my partner noticed that the chipmunk live trap, which had been placed by the garden under the locust tree, was gone. He was sure it had been there the night before. I too had a recollection of seeing it there.

Chipmunks are cute little creatures to the eye. But to the pocket book they can do much damage. Since cats and our beloved dog have long since died, we are now overrun by these rats in fine striped coats. They have constructed cities under our lawns and gardens. They have excavated beneath our home’s foundation. They have burrowed into our outbuilding walls. Therefore, we have taken to trapping them and delivering them far afield. In the process, much petrol has been consumed. So, you will see that they are also bad for the environment.

It is true one should live harmoniously with nature. But when nature does not live harmoniously with one, then it is all out war!

We were both puzzled by the disappearance of the cage. We even doubted our memories and wondered if it had ever been replaced since the last delivery. Surely the storm could not have blown it away, being a heavy wired metal trap. There would be little for the wind to attach itself to.

Our puzzlement dissipated when we noticed that a clear pathway had been blazed through the tall grass beneath and surrounding the Forsythia bush. It sits perched on the edge of the embankment that leads to our lower field and small orchard. Something larger than a chipmunk, much larger, must have been emboldened by the scent emanating from within of creamy peanut butter on a Ritz cracker. The only credible explanation was that it had become stuck part way within the cage and had dragged it down the hill, finally freeing itself. Perhaps it was a small racoon. Surely not a skunk, or there would have been an unpleasant aroma wafting in the air and about the cage.

The grass was wet of course. The hill was steep. My partner was wearing his freshly laundered snow white bath robe, the red plaid one having already been taken up to the cottage for our misty morning coffees on the dock this summer. He was wearing his flat soled moccasins, worn and tread-less. Down the hill he went – And DOWN he went slipping unceremoniously onto his posterior – a surprised and concerned look upon his face. And at his resting place lay the cage, upturned and empty. All but his pride was unharmed.

With some assistance, and a stifled giggle, I gave him a hand up the hill, while hanging onto the lower branch of a Maple tree. Into the wash quickly went the robe – stained green by his tumble on the grassy slope. And now it lies pristinely white again on the bed, awaiting whatever unforeseen adventures may come its way. Do I hear the delighted chirping of the chipmunks as they go about their excavations? Perhaps only in my mind. Perhaps only in the secret smile on my face.