Rescue Ranger: Tim Saves The Life of a Rodent

Despite not being a fan of most people, I would have to admit that I am, at heart, an animal lover (except for cats... they're worse than people). Which is why when I spotted a chipmunk struggling in my parent's pool I did my best David Hasselhoff impression down from the second floor to attempt a water rescue. Cue the music!


(I was actually playing this in my head on the way downstairs.)

I was a lifeguard for over five years and this was by far my most dramatic rescue. I got to him (No, I do not know how to tell the gender of a chipmunk, but for the purposes of the story it's a him - It's my damn chipmunk and I'll do what I want.) just as he stopped struggling and scooped him up in the skimmer. I deposited him by the side of the pool and saw him struggle to untangle his feet from the net. He looked bad.  He looked, well, like a drowned rat. He was waterlogged and shaking from the morning cold. I walked him over to the edge of the woods and away from the pool and set him down. 

I left him there for about a minute, and then my ovaries kicked in. I brought him up on the deck and wrapped him in a towel trying to counteract the effects of rodent hypothermia.  hen my sister chimed in, "We should take him to the animal hospital down the street." Son of a bitch. This never occured to me and now I have to do it. We put him into a shoebox and took him down the street to what turned out to not be an animal hospital, but a dog and cat hospital. Those segregationist assholes. I thought about saying it was a really small cat, but my chipmunk was already in bad shape and I didn't want to insult him. The receptionist recoiled at the sight of the chipmunk. I repeat, she recoiled at the sight of a baby chipmunk in a shoebox wrapped up in a pink towel. I wonder what it's like to not have a soul, I should ask her next time I see her.

She directed us to Tufts Veterinary Hospital in Grafton. Tufts is the best place to take your animal. Our old dog Smudge was treated there and those people are amazing.  But, they're also in Grafton which is a good 20 minutes from where my parents live.  I thought about how insane it is to drive a chipmunk that far to seek treatment and then I realized that I wasn't working for another six hours and this may be the most worthwhile thing that I do all week/month. Buckle up, chipmunk, we're going for a ride.

The chipmunk was riding shotgun with every heating vent pointed in his direction and I was sweating. We're making decent time without speeding (I didn't want to test out the "My chipmunk is sick" excuse on a cop). I make the turn onto the street of the hospital and suddenly the chipmunk makes a miraculous recovery and seems a bit more animated than it was previously. And by animated I mean the chipmunk was like, "Get me out of this fucking box right the fuck now!"

No problem, you say. Just put the top on the shoebox. Uhhh, I didn't bring the top. I thought the thing was dying. I didn't know it would perk up and start trying to recreate The Great Escape and Cujo at the same time. I pulled into a spot and rushed inside as the chipmunk was about to jump out of the box onto the pavement. I walked up to a receptionist and calmly (yeah, right) tried to tell her that I had rescued a chipmunk and he was currently trying to free himself into her waiting room.

"There's a chipmunk in there?"  She asked as she gestured toward the box.  
"Yeah, I found-" 

I stopped midsentence. Why did I stop midsentence?  Because of the next sentence.  I never in a million years believed that I would ever hear myself say, "I'm sorry ma'am. My chipmunk is biting me."

"Oh," she answered completely unconcerned, "Is it bad?"

A WILD ANIMAL IS USING MY INDEX FINGER AS A CHEW TOY!  IS IT BAD?!  IT AIN'T GOOD LADY!

"No."  I answered stoically.

She informed me that I had to go to the Wildlife Center because they only treat cats and dogs here (obviously). It occurs to me that if a cat swallows the chipmunk this ceases to be my problem. There were no cats in the waiting room. Figures, the one time I need one of those things they are nowhere to be found.

I make my way back out to my car yelling at a chipmunk in a shoebox for being, quote, "an ungrateful little bastard." I have reached a level of insanity that is usually reserved for homeless people. As I reached my car, I realized that I could not drive and control the murderous furball at the same time. He was hard enough to get here in the first place and now he has a taste for human flesh. I looked around for something in my car to use as a lid. I found a styrofoam take-out container. Perfect.

I walked into the Wildlife Center holding the take-out container with both hands as the chipmunk is trying to get out and finish the job it started on my finger. The elderly female receptionist regarded me warily.

"What is that?"  She asked.
"This is a chipmunk in a take-out container, ma'am. It's been a weird morning." I answered.

They took the chipmunk away in the container (I was kinda hoping for a tiny gurney) and had me fill out some paperwork. I made the suggested donation for the care of an animal that I did not own. I should have used the money on a tiny life jacket instead. They informed me that he was still shaking and very cold and they were going to keep him.

I drove away feeling pretty good. If they kept him then that meant they can provide care that I could not. So, despite it making me appear insane, I guess I did the right thing. As I was thinking this a squirrel darted out from the side of the street and almost directly underneath my tire. I looked in the rearview as it scurried away unharmed and wondered why woodland rodents were conspiring to ruin my life.

Like I said, it was a weird morning.
 
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