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Chipmunk Popsicle


By Libby Hall




Usually, I can tell when I’ve got good or bad Kharma coming to me, but sometimes the line gets a little fuzzy. Like last week, with the Chipmunk Incident. (PETA members, you might as well stop reading, but for the record, I really was doing the best I could.) 

I came home for lunch one day, and Hubby called. 

“Did you see what I left in the trash can?” he asked.

“No. Why would I look in the trash can?” (Does he really think I look in there each time I pass by?)

“I left you something.”

“What?”

“The cats left a paralyzed a chipmunk on the back porch, so I put it in there.”

“Is he dead?” I asked, hesitating. Why else would Hubby be telling me this?

“He might be by now. But, I put him on top of the bag,” Hubby said, defensively.

So of course I had to go out and look. Sure enough, there was Chippy, only he wasn’t on top of the bag anymore—he’d slipped off and was gasping in a puddle of trash juice. 

“Why didn’t you kill it?” I asked, enraged. “You can’t leave him out there to starve to death! That’s a horrible way to die! It’ll take days.”

“Well, I couldn’t do it! You have to do it.”

Now I was angry for two reasons: first, I’m not a big fan of the circle of life, and second, my husband has demonstrated a repeated lack of understanding of one of the fundamental rules in our marriage: I clean up the poop and vomit, he, being the man, finishes off small animals. So far, he’s managed to convince me to take a paralyzed bunny to the vet to be euthanized, and has now left a poor chipmunk in the bottom of the trashcan.

“I can’t,” I said.

For several minutes we debated the best way to put poor Chippy out of his misery. Finally, after being called several choice names, Hubby asked, “Well, what are you going to do?”

Not able to hit the side of a barn with a gun, that option was out. So was a friend’s suggestion to smear it with peanut butter and leave it in the garden so something else might finish it off (You see? These are the people I have to deal with!) Another friend suggested using a sharp shovel. Euthanasia by the vet was out of the question, since the last time I tried that (see bunny incident above), they were going to charge me $80 to stick a needle into the bunny’s heart. How is THAT humane? 

Finally, I hit upon the best solution I could think of: I would put him in the freezer. Hubby reminded me that friends of his in Bermuda put lobsters in the freezer to kill them before cooking, and since Chippy was already in shock, and it would be quick and painless.

When the deed was done, I sent Hubby an informative text: “The deed is done, you big wussy.”

Instead of being ashamed and remorseful, this is what I got in return: “S-s-soooo c-c-coooold…”

Me: “You left him gasping tiny gasps in trash juice!”

Hubby: “I thought you said he was going to starve. He could’ve lasted for days on that juice.”

Hereafter, Hubby will now be referred to as Hubby #1. I hope the Kharma that comes back from this remembers that I really did try to be humane. It’s the cats who have something to answer for.


Copyright 2013 Libby Hall


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