Rescue Ranger: Tim Saves The Life of a Rodent

Despite not being a fan of most people, I would have to admit that I am, at heart, an animal lover (except for cats... they're worse than people). Which is why when I spotted a chipmunk struggling in my parent's pool I did my best David Hasselhoff impression down from the second floor to attempt a water rescue. Cue the music!


(I was actually playing this in my head on the way downstairs.)

I was a lifeguard for over five years and this was by far my most dramatic rescue. I got to him (No, I do not know how to tell the gender of a chipmunk, but for the purposes of the story it's a him - It's my damn chipmunk and I'll do what I want.) just as he stopped struggling and scooped him up in the skimmer. I deposited him by the side of the pool and saw him struggle to untangle his feet from the net. He looked bad.  He looked, well, like a drowned rat. He was waterlogged and shaking from the morning cold. I walked him over to the edge of the woods and away from the pool and set him down. 

I left him there for about a minute, and then my ovaries kicked in. I brought him up on the deck and wrapped him in a towel trying to counteract the effects of rodent hypothermia.  hen my sister chimed in, "We should take him to the animal hospital down the street." Son of a bitch. This never occured to me and now I have to do it. We put him into a shoebox and took him down the street to what turned out to not be an animal hospital, but a dog and cat hospital. Those segregationist assholes. I thought about saying it was a really small cat, but my chipmunk was already in bad shape and I didn't want to insult him. The receptionist recoiled at the sight of the chipmunk. I repeat, she recoiled at the sight of a baby chipmunk in a shoebox wrapped up in a pink towel. I wonder what it's like to not have a soul, I should ask her next time I see her.

She directed us to Tufts Veterinary Hospital in Grafton. Tufts is the best place to take your animal. Our old dog Smudge was treated there and those people are amazing.  But, they're also in Grafton which is a good 20 minutes from where my parents live.  I thought about how insane it is to drive a chipmunk that far to seek treatment and then I realized that I wasn't working for another six hours and this may be the most worthwhile thing that I do all week/month. Buckle up, chipmunk, we're going for a ride.

The chipmunk was riding shotgun with every heating vent pointed in his direction and I was sweating. We're making decent time without speeding (I didn't want to test out the "My chipmunk is sick" excuse on a cop). I make the turn onto the street of the hospital and suddenly the chipmunk makes a miraculous recovery and seems a bit more animated than it was previously. And by animated I mean the chipmunk was like, "Get me out of this fucking box right the fuck now!"

No problem, you say. Just put the top on the shoebox. Uhhh, I didn't bring the top. I thought the thing was dying. I didn't know it would perk up and start trying to recreate The Great Escape and Cujo at the same time. I pulled into a spot and rushed inside as the chipmunk was about to jump out of the box onto the pavement. I walked up to a receptionist and calmly (yeah, right) tried to tell her that I had rescued a chipmunk and he was currently trying to free himself into her waiting room.

"There's a chipmunk in there?"  She asked as she gestured toward the box.  
"Yeah, I found-" 

I stopped midsentence. Why did I stop midsentence?  Because of the next sentence.  I never in a million years believed that I would ever hear myself say, "I'm sorry ma'am. My chipmunk is biting me."

"Oh," she answered completely unconcerned, "Is it bad?"

A WILD ANIMAL IS USING MY INDEX FINGER AS A CHEW TOY!  IS IT BAD?!  IT AIN'T GOOD LADY!

"No."  I answered stoically.

She informed me that I had to go to the Wildlife Center because they only treat cats and dogs here (obviously). It occurs to me that if a cat swallows the chipmunk this ceases to be my problem. There were no cats in the waiting room. Figures, the one time I need one of those things they are nowhere to be found.

I make my way back out to my car yelling at a chipmunk in a shoebox for being, quote, "an ungrateful little bastard." I have reached a level of insanity that is usually reserved for homeless people. As I reached my car, I realized that I could not drive and control the murderous furball at the same time. He was hard enough to get here in the first place and now he has a taste for human flesh. I looked around for something in my car to use as a lid. I found a styrofoam take-out container. Perfect.

I walked into the Wildlife Center holding the take-out container with both hands as the chipmunk is trying to get out and finish the job it started on my finger. The elderly female receptionist regarded me warily.

"What is that?"  She asked.
"This is a chipmunk in a take-out container, ma'am. It's been a weird morning." I answered.

They took the chipmunk away in the container (I was kinda hoping for a tiny gurney) and had me fill out some paperwork. I made the suggested donation for the care of an animal that I did not own. I should have used the money on a tiny life jacket instead. They informed me that he was still shaking and very cold and they were going to keep him.

I drove away feeling pretty good. If they kept him then that meant they can provide care that I could not. So, despite it making me appear insane, I guess I did the right thing. As I was thinking this a squirrel darted out from the side of the street and almost directly underneath my tire. I looked in the rearview as it scurried away unharmed and wondered why woodland rodents were conspiring to ruin my life.

Like I said, it was a weird morning.
 
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Tim Gets Trim: Hockey Edition

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If I had to pinpoint the worst aspect of the meteorologically schizophrenic Northeast it would have to be the  rapid change between the sweatshirt and shirtless seasons.  Every year, many of us are caught off guard and scramble to lose the blubber that is physiologically essential to surviving the harsh winter.  Running, I have been told, is the fastest way to lose this and I do it as much as I can.

That being said, running sucks.  It's boring as hell.  When I was rowing crew the one thing that I could not master was the skill of staring at the back of another guy's head while repeating the same motion over and over.  "O'Brien, keep your fucking head in the boat" was my nickname on the team.  And we were rowing on Lake Quinsigamond in Worcester. Imagine if there was actually scenery worth watching.

I realized I had to pursue other avenues of calorie burning.  Playing pick-up hockey seemed like a good idea.  Initially.  I'm not sure why I thought this was a good idea.  I haven't played in over a year.  "It's just like riding a bike" someone said. No, no it is not.  It's like riding a unicycle through an obstacle course while trying to hit a golf ball through a moving target the size of a dinner plate.  I thought I would give it one last try before hanging up the skates and getting serious about golf.

It turns out I can still play.  The first circle around the rink when I crossed over through a turn and my skates stayed under me I knew I would be alright.  After a few goals the confidence was sky high; which was the part of my game that was missing back when I played competitively.  In high school I never would have tried to take the puck out from behind my own net.  But I did, and beat four guys in the process.  The last move (in my own mind) was right out of Ovechkin's playbook, putting the puck through the final defenseman's skates and in perfect position to shoot.  And I did.  About three plexi-glass panels to the right of the net.  The boards rattled and I laughed at myself for being so athletic and incompetent in the span of about 9 seconds.

I sat down on the bench near the end.  I must have been beet red and soaked in sweat and I popped my helmet off to cool down.  The kid to my right did the same.  He could not have been more than 12 years old.  The faded hockey bag I lugged my equipment in was literally older than him.  His name was Conery as far as I could tell from the name on his jersey.

"Who do you play for?" Conery asked.
"Um, nobody."
"I mean, who did you play for in college?"
"I didn't play in college."  I said between gulps of air.
"Wow," Conery said, "You could have."

I didn't realize it, but that's what I was playing for.  I never really struggled with a sense of belonging but it suddenly occurred to me how much I wanted the approval of these 13 strangers I was playing with and against.  I missed having a team even if the team only lasted for 2 hours and our only common bond was that we chose to wear a dark jersey today instead of white or grey.  But it felt better than running alone.  Thanks, Conery.  Good luck next year at Winchendon.