The Cat and the Chipmunk

The Cat and The Chipmunk


My wife and I live in a small house surrounded on three sides by woods.  A gravel road passes by the front.  In our yard are several trees.  One of these is a quite large yellow pine tree.

Cats wander in every so often, looking for a handout.  If you feed them, they will stay around for a while, until they get a better offer.  I really don’t care much for cats, but I believe in being kind to strangers.  They don’t belong to the neighbors; I don’t think a cat actually belongs to anyone.  Sometimes they stay for a week or a few months.  One stayed for two years, before suddenly disappearing.  I actually named that one.  Most often I just call them “the cat.”

I noticed the cat sitting in the grass about 40 feet from the large yellow pine.  Every couple minutes it would leap 3 feet, then start making strange batting motions with its front paws.  After a few seconds of this it would return to its sphinx-like position.  As I watched, this happened three or four times.  The cat had cut the distance to about 30 feet from the pine.  Curious, I moved closer, not too close, I didn’t want to interrupt whatever game the cat was playing.

From my improved vantage point, it was easy to see that the cat had caught a chipmunk.  It would pounce on the chipmunk; pummel it for a few seconds, then sit and watch.  The chipmunk looked as if it were near death.  It would slowly roll to its feet, make a few short, feeble jumps, collapse, then maybe jump a couple more times before the cat would again pounce on it.

I was fascinated by what the cat was doing.  I know it’s in a cat’s nature to do this kind of thing, but I had never really witnessed anything quite like this.  It went on another three or four times.  Each time they would move closer to the yellow pine.  I ordinarily don’t like to mess with nature, unless there’s a good reason for it.  This was becoming one of those times.  I kept thinking, “If you’re going to kill it, just get it over with.”  Claiming, “I was just an innocent bystander, a spectator,” was hardly good justification for not intervening on the behalf of this poor chipmunk.

The cat was simply doing what cats do.  I, on the other hand, was the one allowing this torture to go on.  If I stepped in, the cat was either going to kill it instantly, or run off, leaving me with that damned chipmunk.  That would make it my problem.  I was going to have to kill it myself, or, if possible, try to nurse it back to health.  I had made up my mind; I was going to have to step in.

They were about 20 feet from the yellow pine.  Once more the cat pounced on, then pummeled the chipmunk.

The chipmunk again rolled to its feet.  It made three very feeble, little jumps, then, like a shot, went for the pine tree.  I’ve never seen a chipmunk move that fast before.  The cat was taken completely by surprise, as was I.  It had absolutely no chance of catching up.  By the time the cat made it to the tree, the chipmunk was well up into the branches.

The cat circled the base of the tree for a good three or four minutes, looking up, meowing, searching for its lost snack.  It finally gave up and went off to do whatever it is that cats do, when they’re not beating up chipmunks.

I could imagine the chipmunk, hidden in the branches of that pine tree, smiling.  I could see him one day telling his little grandmunks about the day he outsmarted a cat.  He would tell them about slowly maneuvering his captor, about meticulously carrying out his escape plan, moving ever closer to his place of refuge.  He would tell them about beating the cat in a foot race for his life.  He would, of course, greatly embellish the story, as all good grandparents do.