By Gayne C. Young
I have nothing but love and respect for my mother-in-law.
I know, I know, I’m not supposed to like her and as a writer, I’m supposed to rag on her, but the truth is that Bonnie’s a great gal. She loves me, loves how I treat her daughter, and thinks I’m interesting and funny. That’s being said … there’s only so much of Bonnie that I can take. I grow tired of hearing about her church activities, how she volunteers daily for such programs as Food Pantry and Laundry Love, and how she cooks for the homeless down at the Franciscan church every Friday. Because of this, I usually make plans to do things outside of her home when I visit her in Wisconsin for a week each summer. Two years ago, I said I had an article to work on and went to a bar for the day. Last year I went fishing on Lake Michigan for a day. This year … I went chipmunk hunting in her backyard.
I’ve always wanted a chipmunk in my trophy room. Mainly because I don’t know of anyone who has one. I’ve been in some of the most extensive game rooms in Texas— rooms with more than 300 animals from around the world represented—and not a one of ‘em has a chipmunk. Is this because they’re so hard to hunt? Is it because it’s a dangerous hunt? I don’t know. But I wanted to find out. And figured taking a day off from Bonnie was a fun way to do some research.
Bonnie was nice enough to let me turn her gazebo into a hunting blind for the Tuesday of my visit. The structure sits in plain sight of her many, many bird feeders (Yes, this would be a baited hunt. Don’t judge me.) and made for a comfortable ambush point. I strung camo netting before me then had a seat with a half dozen cigars, an 18 pack of beer on ice, and a borrowed pellet rifle at the ready. Nothing could have prepared me for what I would see during that day.
The sun rose to see the little vermin descend on Bonnie’s lawn like some Biblical horde of old.
A Biblical horde on methamphetamines!
The Hunt is Afoot
These little rat-like bastards skirted around like each had a livewire stuck up their tiny ass. They’d part the lawn, do figure eights under the feeders, and tornado through the flowers. I drew a bead on the closest of the little crack rats and squeezed the trigger. Missed. Not only were these suckers fast but they made for a super small target. And my borrowed pellet rifle didn’t have much oomph. I tried taking a shot at a second chippy. I missed that shot too. Damn. Time to crack a beer and light a cigar in order to relax. I did just that then a short time later tried a third shot. This shot sent the little fluff ball jumping sky high. It bounced back to the earth then ran away. I exited my blind to investigate but found no signs of blood. I’m guessing my shot went just under him.
Bonnie saw me milling about and came outside to ask of my success. I told her of my trilogy of misses. She smiled and told me to keep at it then added that I could shoot all the bluejays I wanted. “They’re just so mean to the other birds,” she complained. “Just bullies.” I agreed but decided that breaking the law in my mother-in-law’s yard probably wasn’t in my best interest. That and the fact that my wife overheard her mother’s suggestion and barked, “absolutely not!”
The two bird enthusiasts left, and I returned to my blind to hunt.
And smoke.
And drink.
I did so for several hours without seeing so much as a chipmunk whisker. I did however see several bluejays and noticed that they were, in fact, truly the bastards of the songbird world. Shortly after noon, Bonnie texted me that she had prepared me lunch. I went inside to have her hand me a plate of … something.
A Most Dangerous Game
“Figured you’d want some tacos being from Texas.”
I studied the plate before me while trying to hide the horror surfacing upon my face.
“Feta and cranberry.”
I thanked my mother-in-law then returned to my blind where I quickly took pictures of the feta and cranberry tacos made with love and texted them to friends back home. My Mexican friends especially had interesting comments. I was down to one beer left around 3 when the horde appeared again. They spasmed about the yard and flower gardens and under the feeders. I took aim on the one closest then watched in disbelief as the little vermin plowed forward in my direction.
Was he charging me?
Maybe chipmunk hunting really was dangerous.
The chippy barreled forward and I’m pretty sure he bared his teeth in attack and might have even roared. I drew a bead dead center and fired. The .177 pellet shot forward at the speed of an octogenarian in a loaner scooter at the grocery store and tore through the little munk’s upper leg. The furball spun around and around then succumbed to death. I have no idea how good a trophy he was as I had nothing really to compare him to. He weighed probably half of an empty beer can and was about the length of my hand. Next to my 4′ 10″ and maybe 85-pound mother-in-law, however, he was a monster (alas, she wouldn’t pose for a picture with him). I tossed my new trophy rat in the freezer and joined my wife for what remained of the day.
I smuggled the rat in my suitcase back to Texas and quickly took it to my taxidermist, Neal Coldwell. He looked at my chipmunk and asked, “What the hell is that?” I told him and he quickly pondered how he had never seen one in any trophy room in Texas.
Yeah, I blazed the trail for others.
