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When I was in college, way back when, there was a convenient tear in one of our window screens that my cat used to come and go at will. One day he came through and went into the kitchen, making odd noises, so I followed him and beheld the dead chipmunk he was delivering. I thanked him politely, effectively hiding my revulsion at the fact that I now had a small dead rodent to dispose of, and trying to remember where I had last seen the dustpan. Then I noticed that the chipmunk was starting to twitch..."oh.my.god. he's still alive! I'm going to have to find some way to put him out of his misery! Eek and, likewise, eww!' As I was bravely and nobly planning which pair of my roommate's shoes would be best for finishing off the chipmunk, the damned little bugger leapt up and ran out of the kitchen and into the dining room!! I was in the living room and up on the armchair in the next nanosecond, and had crossed from there to walking down the couch towards the phone when it occurred to me to wonder just who exactly I was thinking of calling in this emergency. Then I realized I was acting like Lucy Ricardo and made myself get down off the furniture. I really don't mind rodents, per se, I just have horrible misgivings about wild ones running across my feet.

We never did find the chipmunk, so either Gypsy Dave reclaimed him, or Chippy made his way back out somehow.