People who know me at all know my fondness for resident wildlife does not particularly extend to chipmunks.

Oh, sure. They are cute — and, as I’ve related before, Harrod’s in London sold them as pets. I’d be happy to donate a few. Or many.

Little thieves, they can reach into any of the bird feeders. They can escape from the chipmunk Hav-a-Hart almost always. And, while a not invited houseguest, do arrive periodically to amuse the cat. On those occasions I will admittedly bend over backwards to see them safely depart once Gloria tires of her latest playmate. (The survival rate for chipmunks is much higher than that for any unfortunate snakes or toads.)

Beyond being cute — and that attractiveness wore off for me long, long ago — I have no use for the furry little monsters.

That said, there was one … one day.

I have watched chipmunks (too many chipmunks) climb the pole that holds the birdfeeders. Somehow after one (re)incarnation, the squirrel baffler disappeared, not that it stopped any of my varmints. Up there little nimble creatures race, easy access to suet and seed. (Only the grape jelly for the orioles remains untouched.)

But chipmunks are active little guys. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen one climb the pole and then just stop. Right at the zenith of the curve. Is it resting? Do chipmunks ever rest? Really?

I checked again minutes later, not really expecting it to still be there. Not only was it but it had changed position and was now draped over the top, head on one side, tail off the other.

Could it be injured? Funny place to stop to recuperate if one were to ask my opinion but no one did.

Curiosity pulled me (and camera of course) out of the house. I shot as I walked, thankful even again for that handy delete feature, expecting the animal to take off the minute I appeared in its sight line. It didn’t move.

Was it dead? There (of all places)? It blinked, shifted position so now its legs dangled off the side farther from me but indicated no eagerness to skedaddle.

Approaching, one slow step at a time, I shot as I walked. It seemed fully aware I was coming closer and, while I didn’t see it, may well have sighed a wee “so what?” as I closed in. Now it was just out of reach above me.

Nope. It seemed in fine fettle. Shifting to the end side of the hook, it stretched out on the metal, head up. Obviously, my presence wasn’t bothering it. Thoughts of all sorts of imaginative “what ifs” coursed through my inquiring brain. What if? Or, perhaps, what now?

It continued to change position, apparently comfortable enough as the acrobat I deigned it to be.

I was intrigued as the scene continued to play out.

How many poses could it maneuver that little body into? And of course the “what thens” as I slowly tiptoed ever closer.

I didn’t want to chase it away but, at the same time, curiosity is always strong in my mind. Just how close would it let me come? Was I destined to ultimately capture just photographs of a single eyeball?

Was it sick? If so, how sick? And, perhaps more to the point, why would I have an ailing chipmunk — and what, if so, did I do then? Report it? Bury it? Perhaps just ignore it: perched (stuck?) there atop the feeder pole.

It solved my problem for, after just one more step nearer, it, totally alert now, sparked to attention and was off, as healthy as any chipmunk could be.

It was not a scene I’ve seen repeated. Nor is it one I expect to ever see again.

I’m glad I have the pictures.

Susan Crossett has lived outside Cassadaga for more than 20 years. A lifetime of writing led to these columns as well as two novels. “Her Reason for Being” was published in 2008 with “Love in Three Acts” following in 2014. Both novels are now available at Lakewood’s Off the Beaten Path bookstore. Information on all the Musings, her books and the author may be found at Susancrossett.com.