I woke up that morning and my back legs wouldn't move. They didn't hurt. They just didn't move.
My heart started to pump hard and my head started to pound, and I couldn't catch my breath because I was so scared. I was terrified. I am going to die. I can't feel my back legs.
I looked back and they were mashed. Not bleeding, not painful. Just mashed. And that was how I woke up this morning.
I laid under the wood pile for hours, listening to squirrels, cats, and birds and other chipmunks moving around, scratching for breakfast. Then for lunch. Then dinner. Then I fell asleep again, exhausted by my fears.
I woke up at night many times, and my legs still wouldn't move. Many times, all night, under the woodpile, alone. A crippled chipmunk. How exactly does your life end when you're crippled and alone under a woodpile? Will dying hurt? Will a cat eat me alive? Will I just starve to death? Will it take long to die?
Who helps you when you're a chipmunk with paralyzed back legs, in a woodpile in someone's back yard?
Two days went by, and on the third morning I could hear the man out there turning over the compost pile. The pile was warm, almost hot with decomposing vegetables, leaves and grass. Warm, I thought, would feel good.
When he put the hoe in and closed the shed and went inside for coffee, I pulled myself up with my front legs and dragged over to the compost pile. It was so warm. It was wonderful. It smelled wonderful with food. For me. Vegetable scraps. I ate.
I dragged myself back to the woodpile and fell asleep for a little while. I felt that I was still alive and I was not going to die, because I had food in the compost pile. Scraps from the man's kitchen.
After some hours, I dragged back there and was half buried in the pile, digging at some fruits skins, when the man came out of the house. He took me by surprise, and I scrambled as quickly as I could out of the compost over to the woodpile, and safety.
He saw me, I know. He stood straight up and watched me drag my back legs away into the safety of the woodpile. He stood there for a long while looking at the woodpile. I was scared he would chase me. He didn't. He just stood there.
I was terrified again. He's going to kill me. Not the cat. The man was going to dig me out of the woodpile and kill me. My heart was pounding again. I was crying and all alone, and I was going to be killed because my legs are crippled.
Night came, and I slept like I was dead.
Morning came, and I woke up. I was not dead. Not yet, anyway.
I smelled something new. I sniffed and propped my head up. I could smell it but . . . ?
I stayed still a long while. Heard nothing. No cats, maybe a squirrel, and those brown sparrows, but nothing sounded dangerous. But I waited anyway. For a while longer.
I poked up. That smell. I dragged out of the woodpile carefully, sniffing.
Peanuts? Those are peanuts! Dry-roasted peanuts. A whole dishfull lying right there, shelled!
Page written by Dave Leo