I think I’ve cracked.

They haunt me around corners, lurking in my peripheral vision while I’m working on a project, stalking silently while they wait for me to turn my gaze to face them straight on. Their faces are grotesque, misshapen and stretched by their nasty habit. I lunge toward them in a show of force, but they sit and stare back glassy-eyed. I violently demand they take their leave, but they just take a few tiny steps before turning back to taunt me again, shaking their jowls in an effective ploy to thoroughly vex me.

I’ve waged war against the chipmunks.

It started quite a long time ago, when the varmints took up residence under the foundation of my parents’ house. This wasn’t entirely heinous, as they mostly minded their own business, but showed an open disregard for the eviction notice. I believe this set our relations off on the wrong foot (or paw, as the case may be). Furthermore, it might be acceptable for Mr and Mrs Chip to live out the remainder of their 3-year lifespan in those quarters, but they have had the audacity to continue littering twice yearly and exponentially expanding their family tree.

The tipping point came in the form of collecting welfare without proper documentation. The Chips were sighted repeatedly on the bird feeder, stuffing their faces and skittering off when confronted, but boldly returning only minutes later to fill their pockets again. I quickly grew weary of the gluttony, taking it upon myself to chase the Chip off the feeder, wielding my weapon-of-convenience paintbrush as a tomahawk to collect tails for my warrior belt.

After a week of paintbrush tomahawking, I had not yet carved a notch into the handle of my weapon. It was time for phase 2. My uncle offered a live trap that had served its purpose as a mink trap a half-century ago, throwing in some sunflower seed bait as a bonus. My yet-undiscovered hunter self was being realized.

On the first day of trapping, I affixed the trap to the deck railing near the feeder, hoping to catch the perp in the act, or at least deter it. After watching with disgust as a chipmunk entered the trap, ate some seeds, and sprinted back out as the trap door slammed shut behind it, I made some adjustments to fine tune a hair trigger.

I promptly caught two nuthatches and a grosbeak. As much as I wish these were nicknames for members of the Chip mafia, nuthatches and grosbeaks are birds. I released the birds unharmed after some brief panic on their part, and ultimately determined that I should move the trap to the other side of the house to minimize collateral damage.

It was an afternoon to remember. After about an hour, I received report that the trap had a new tenant – this time, it sported incriminating criminal stripes. I loaded the back of my car with the convicted Chip, blindfolded (with an overturned bucket, in case the wily creature attempted an escape from the trap to terrorize my car’s interior), and drove two miles into the forest. Uprighting the bucket and lifting the trap from the car, I opened the trap door toward the woods. The Chip sprung from the cage, crashing into the leaf floor before turning around to scold me. Of course.

This scene repeated itself three more times in the next two hours. Set the trap, hear the distinct slam of metal doors and a frenetic skittering from behind bars, load the trap and bucket, drive two miles, release. Smile.

Today, the tail tally has reached 6. There was a slight lull in capture rate, but this has been bolstered by the strategic use of nut butters.

I do not anticipate completely ridding this area — this formidable 21st-century Dodge City — of the Chip clan, but I do intend to send an unmistakable message: Gluttony will not be tolerated – seeds will be dispensed one at a time.

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