I had been upstairs sewing when the doghorn had sounded (even though the sound is vastly diminished, it is still not something one can ignore.) Then there had been sounds of muffled crashing, and hangers clanging. I knew that doghorn+crashing+hangers meant only one thing: Lionel had deposited another chipmunk (or mousie) in the house(ie) for his friend to play with. The cat was nowhere to be seen which was a good thing, but Ray's butt and enthusiastically wagging tail sticking out of the closet were a dead giveaway as to the location of the errant rodent.
I corralled the dog in the bathroom, propped open the front door, and started removing things from the closet floor. A chipmunk was wedged between a piece of foam that Lionel liked to sleep on and the wall. He looked vaguely familiar. He's been here before, I thought to myself. I grabbed an umbrella and gave him a gentle poke. Obviously knowing his way out, the chipmunk sauntered to the front door. I followed, closed it behind him, and let Ray out of the lock-up.
|He's not in here, Ray. He must have gotten away.|
|Are you sure, Lionel?|
|Maybe, he's back here.|
|I really think he might be back here.|
|Nope. You were right. He's not there.|