The Day Chippie Cashed In His Chips

My brother Ronnie and I were exact opposites. He was the good boy; I was the family’s black sheep, curious about everything, and constantly getting into trouble, seeking to satisfy my insatiable curiosity. Many a switching I got because of Ronnie’s snitching. Occasionally, though, events worked in my favor. Such was the case with Chippie. Dad loved wild creatures, and if he caught one, he’d bring it home. Once when he showed up with a chipmunk, he asked, “Boys, what shall we name him?” I suggested Monk, but Dad preferred my brother’s choice, Chippie.

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When Ronnie tried feeding Chippie a peanut, it bared razor-sharp incisors, expanded its cheek pouches, laid its ears back, glared furiously with enraged ebony eyes, and chirred threateningly. “Aw, come on, let’s be friends,” Ronnie said, and again extended the peanut. Chippie swiped at him with needle-like claws, and Ronnie retreated. The next day, Ronnie offered another peanut, and his little buddy gobbled it down. Then, an idea popped into his head — a really bad idea. “See! Chippie has accepted me as his buddy,” Ronnie exclaimed. “Very gently, I’m going to pick him up. Then I can hold and feed him peanuts at the same time.” “I wouldn’t. He might bite you,” I warned, hoping he would. Donning one of Dad’s heavy work gloves, my saintly sibling said, “Not if I’m wearing this … no way he can bite through this thick leather.” Blessed by Satan with a malicious mindset, I encouraged him to do so.

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After removing the cage’s top, he reached for Chippie, who seemed unperturbed. As Ronnie’s fingers closed gently around his little buddy, Satan’s sadism broke loose. Chippie opened his jaws so wide that his eyes squeezed shut, and clamped down. Those incisors went straight through the leather and into Ronnie’s thumb! When my screaming sibling tried shaking loose his attacker, Chippie chomped even harder. Jumping up and down and flinging his hand around, he tried desperately to free himself from the rankled rodent. Finally, satisfied that he had exacted as much pain as possible, Chippie let go while Ronnie was still flailing and howling. The glove, with Bro’s little buddy attached, sailed across the room, knocked over one of Mama’s expensive antique lamps, crashed into the wall, and left Chippie deceased. Then I heard Dad’s boots clumping up the back steps. I looked at my bawling brother and thought, oh boy, your misery has just begun. Gaping at the empty cage, shattered lamp, and Chippie’s cadaver, Dad was livid. “Who did this?” Quickly I pointed at the doomed one. As Dad unfastened the dreaded belt, Ronnie pleaded, “Please don’t whip me, Dad. Look what Chippie did to my thumb!” His pleas went unheeded, as Dad laid on the stripes. Then we heard Mama’s wail and saw her gawking at the shattered lamp. Her willow switch picked up where the belt left off. It was an event the black sheep of the family still cherishes: the day Chippie cashed in his chips.

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