Here's what kind of good samaritan I am. We live in juxtaposition with wall-dwelling critters. I wouldn't call it harmony; that implies mutual respect. We don't want them. They only want our warmth and maybe food; mostly wall warmth. They scratch around quite conspicuously.
I bang those walls when I hear them. My hope? Drive them outside for a cigarette. Maybe there, they'll notice the necklace of bright aqua-blue poison blocks I've spread like turquoise jewelry around the perimeter: under the spectacular new deck, constructed by Mike like a captain's walk out of mahogany and plastic planks, across the front of our house; at the down spouts; under the back deck, a likely area of infiltration according to the pest guy; beneath the stove top and dryer vents. That, too. Pretty thorough in the dark.
All things considered? I'd rather be rolling too-heavy rocks across my land than killing chipmunks with low SATs. But it's the country. Living here involves a lot of violence. Even if it's just the Monday-afternoon, single-shot-rifle target practice across the field. You go wth the murder you have.