Chippy Takes Five

A shrill, barely audible whistle tweeted in the distance as the mid-morning sun reached 10:00…

Scratching noises. A thump. Then a tiny brown chipmunk popped out of a hole and sprinted halfway across the closely cropped yard.

He froze. Looked this way and that. Nose twitched. Tiny fingers curled at his chest as if gripping a baton. Eyes darted from one house to a similar house to another very similar house. He eyed the shiny black street, so freshly paved it still had that hot tar smell — so seldomly driven on it still added spring to the Postal worker’s step as she strolled passed, letters in hand.

Sensing no hawks or dogs, the chipmunk skittered across the remaining length of the yard, stopping when it reached the mailbox pole, steel and still sporting the bright orange PAID sticker from Home Depot. He leaned his back against this pole — stubby tail tucked beneath his left haunch.

Again, the chipmunk froze. Looked this way and that. Whiskers shuddered. Eager eyes took in the enormity of the cloudless sky. He brushed eight, fuzzy fingers and two thumb-like nubs against his tummy as if trying to whisk away water or acorn crumbs.

“What a day.” The chipmunk curled over his left side, dug around in fur with both hands and pulled out a pack of smokes. “Jesus,” he said and reached into the tufts on his right side pulling out first a lighter, then a phone that he immediately tucked under his arm. The chipmunk shook the lighter a couple of times and flicked it repeatedly until the flame caught and stayed and the tiny Marlboro Red tucked between his fluffy cheeks sizzled. “Such a pain-in-my-ass day, ya know?” he mumbled between puffs. He rubbed his eyes hard with his free hand and coughed a tiny, phlegmy cough. A productive cough. Lentil-sized lungs crackling with tar. “What a damn day…”

In the similar yards lining the street on either side, little trails of smoke snaked into the sky just above grass surrounding the base of every mailbox pole. The neighborhood was empty of people. Quiet, save for the barely audible hacking, sporadic squeaks and sniffing.

He tucked away the lighter and removed the phone from his pit. Stuck to the back of his phone, a dirty nametag read “Chippy.”

Chippy pushed his finger against the button at the base of his cell. Facebook immediately blinked on at the same birthday alert he’d last seen that morning. Chippy swiped at the screen until it updated and he scanned, focused, laughing to himself between posts.

Typical.

“Such an asshole,” Chippy muttered. Honestly, how many pictures, Stripy? How many pictures are you going to post from one stupid trip to Austin? Chippy thought, and spit a piece of ash into the grass. He tapped hard with his thumb and watched images of Jingles and her kids drift by. His angry-looking mother. His chubby sister gripping a ragged bible. Corny-Toots looked better except for that blue-jay scar fur didn’t grow around anymore.

Chippy paused long enough to remove himself from his class reunion group chat then took a long, slow drag.

He swiped up again, and there she was. Nibbles.

Nibbles looked good. Really good. The years had been kind to her. Her tail was still full. No sign of mites. And despite all the pups in older posts, her figure was hot. And if there were any stretch marks, you sure couldn’t see them under that shiny pelt of hers. “Damn, baby,” muttered Chippy.

Chippy scratched his lip and crushed his cigarette against the mailbox pole, leaving a poppy-seed-sized mark. He weighed his options. He called up messenger and typed something he didn’t send. It didn’t read right. “She don’t wanna hear from me,” he muttered. “Not after that whole thing.”

But those ear tufts. That moist, pink nose.

Chippy scratched the back of his head and ate what he found there. Then he read his unsent message again. He pressed send. Then he instantly regretted it.

A shrill, barely audible whistle tweeted in the distance as the mid-morning sun reached 10:10…

Chippy cursed under his breath, pocketed his phone and sprinted back across the closely cropped yard. He paused at the hole. A pained expression twisted and matted his facial fur. “It’s 5:00 somewhere, Nibbles! Ya hear me? It’s friggin’ 5:00 somewhere!” he yelled with a defiant squeak that gave a nearby squirrel pause. Then Chippy steadied himself and dove back in.

The End