Until recently, my neighbor and I led separate lives.

We'd nod at each other in passing - me flying off to yoga class, him headed home with a load of food. Chip had his routine and I had mine.

But all that changed Thursday. As usual, I was in a hurry pawing through my bag in search of car keys, when I caught a glimpse of my fellow Arden Street resident. What I saw made my heart sink.

Chip - it now seems necessary to point out - is a chipmunk, and he was having a Bad Day with a capital "B." The poor little guy had lodged his head between the legs of my wrought iron plant stand. His hind legs dangled a few centimeters from the ground, unable to gain purchase on a solid surface. Delicate lashes obscured his nearly closed eyes, as flies dive-bombed around him. A few of the vile creatures had already laid their eggs on Chip's handsome cinnamon coat.

The injustice of it all, combined with a healthy helping of guilt (it was my death-trap stand after all), spurred me to action. I wrapped Chip's hindquarters in a kitchen towel, and lifted him upward until he gave a sharp squeak and his head was freed. I offered him a few sips of water using an eye-dropper, then hurried to the nearest vet office.

It was a harrowing ride. I watched Chip's tiny torso rise and fall with every ragged breath, as my visiting mother navigated the city streets. Near one intersection, she slammed on the brakes as a squirrel careened dangerously close to our car's tires. Mom and I exchanged glances, and couldn't help but chuckle. The irony was too much, even in our "RESCUE 911" mode. But when the red-tail returned to the sidewalk, she hit the gas. In no time at all, we arrived at the animal hospital.

I held Chip, housed in a small pet carrier, close to my chest. When the receptionist emerged from the back office, she told us - without even glancing at the ailing rodent - that the doctor wouldn't treat wild animals. I burned inside, but held my tongue and scored a passive-aggressive victory as I swiped two office pens on my way out.

Meanwhile, Chip was still in agony. Desperate, I called the Black Hawk Wildlife Rehabilitation Project. Within 30 minutes, Terese was at my door, and it looked like my patient was going to rally. Chip accepted more water, sat up, and even wrapped his tiny tail around my finger in appreciation. Terese, like the rest of our county's rehabbers, is licensed by the state to care for injured, sick or orphaned critters. At her home, Chip will receive fluids and recuperate under a heat lamp before being released into the wild.

It's unlikely I'll see the little guy again, but I'm glad we crossed paths. After all, it's never too late to meet your neighbors - even the four-legged ones.