The world is being taken over by chipmunks, at least in my corner of Maine. The little suckers are everywhere, digging holes, tunnels and burrows while laughing at me behind my back.

It’s funny. I never really paid much attention to the little guys before. I had bigger fish to fry, such as sneaky skunks who snuffled into my garage when I accidentally left the door open, and woodchucks as big as bear cubs that slept under my shed by day and gorged themselves on newly planted cucumbers and nasturtiums by night.

I made short work of the rotund raccoon that rummaged in the compost bin and helped himself to dozens of newly planted hyacinth bulbs. I even triumphed over attic-dwelling squirrels that enjoyed playing “Bowling for Dollars” over my head at 3 a.m. Yes, my Havahart and I could do it all.

To date, however, I’m not doing so well in the War of the Chipmunks. I believe the score, if I were to venture a guess, is Chipmunks, 17-Me, 0.

To be honest, it wasn’t until my neighbor pointed out what the cute little things were doing to our well-manicured lawns, that I noticed The Holes. At first I couldn’t figure out why my friend was making such a fuss. Then, upon further probing with a shovel, I saw that these small entry and exit holes led to a series of deep, dark tunnels. I pictured an underground chipmunk chamber large enough to be used as a fall-out shelter for all of west Bath.

Later in the summer, my neighbor’s driveway began its slow collapse. Next, as I was digging a new flower bed near a chipmunk’s front door, I fell into a larger hole up to my left knee cap. A few weeks later, I thought my shed was leaning slightly to the left. I began to get concerned, but after extensive chipmunk research on the Internet, I found that “there are no chipmunk deterrents on the market because they don’t cause structural damage.” Ha!

I can’t even escape the beady-eyed creatures at work. Who would think chipmunks would dare loiter at a college campus as prestigious as Bowdoin? I think they hang out there to recreate, reproduce and retire in style. They probably have a pecking order as well: students, faculty, staff and alumni, and I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if there is a class titled Care & Feeding of Chipmunks 101. The rascals are everywhere, feasting on bits of bagel dropped on the ground by innocent students as they walk to class. Next thing you know, the chipmunks will obtain picture IDs and be lined up at the student café, ordering lattes to go. They’re that brazen.

In the play yard at the Bowdoin College Children’s Center, an entire herd of chipmunks darts back and forth on a never-ending acorn-absconding mission, sometimes making the toddlers a little panicky. As teachers, we’re all wondering if we should be carrying anti-chipmunk weapons to protect our charges and ourselves. You never know when and where the little pests are going to pop up.

All these chipmunk dealings have made me remember other close encounters with them, like the time I was camping in Baxter State Park and was victimized by two tiny accomplices. While one chattery scoundrel distracted me by running across the sandwiches I was making at the picnic table, his silent partner dashed into the back of the van and stuffed his cheeks with the bulk of the trail mix supply.

I’m sure they sat around the campfire that night telling all their friends how foolish I looked chasing them down the bank of Katahdin Stream – with a peanut butter-covered knife in my hand.

These days, my 2-year-old grandson, who doesn’t yet know the wily ways of chipmunks, watches a pair of the little striped fellows in his yard. Dubbing them “Paco” and “Taco,” he squeals with delight when he catches sight of them. As Addison jumps up and down with glee, I join in. I’m excited, I really am. I’m very, very happy the little *&%$# are in his yard, and not in mine.

Karen Schneider is a freelance writer living in West Bath. She may be reached by e-mail at [email protected].