It was hot and sunny, and there was a scrabbling in the downspout.
I’m sure over the years, more than one small creature has met its unfortunate fate in any one of the gutters on our house and garage, washed down into the buried sewer pipes. But this one I heard.
Okay, then. Let’s see what we have: I go over to the downspout at the front corner of the garage and give it a couple firm taps.
::rustlerustleskrrrriiik: (A small struggling noise and then the sound of toenails on metal.)
I can’t tell exactly where it is in the pipe, but it’s easy enough to separate the vertical downspout from the s-shaped connector at the bottom which feeds into the sealed pipe below. I figure if it’s in the former, whatever critter is in there will welcome a safe drop into the leafy hostas, and if it’s in the latter, it’ll be a brief scramble upward to daylight and freedom.
The downspout is now open to the plants. There is no sound.
The only visible curve inside the s-pipe is bare, and there’s no noise coming from there, either.
I triple-tap on the vertical pipe again.
:skribbleskritchrattleskreeeee: Still in there, eh? Look down, goofball: That’s freedom and cool shady territory for hiding and fleeing to safety.
Nothing.
Ugh, fine. I get the ladder and a long, thin wooden stake from the garage, and climb up to look down.
Whatever’s in the darkness, it’s far enough down that I can’t see it – but I know it’s there because I don’t see the opening at the bottom of the downspout. Here we go.
With one hand, I steady myself against the roof, and with the other, I gently lower the stake into the downspout, thinking I’ll just loose the critter’s grip and it’ll drop softly into those waiting plants, and we’ll both go about our day.
I am utterly unprepared for the thing which turns out to be a chipmunk to use the stake as a ladder and freaking launch itself out out the pipe with such velocity that it’s just a rocketing brown blur and then for half a heartbeat it’s frozen against a heat-wavering summer blue sky at the peak of a steep parabola, above the gutter and the ladder and the roof line and me and all this is happening as I am yelping in surprise and clutching the roof to keep from tipping backward.
Motion resumes as the chipmunk soundlessly drops, then softly breaks the low canopy of the hostas. There is a muffled thump and receding tiny footfalls toward the patch of mint at the garage’s back corner.
My heart begins to slow again, and I hope the chipmunk’s does, too.
John Booth Writes 