The pounding kept getting louder and louder and the woodchuck, deep in hibernation, was jolted awake. It was hard to locate the source of the vibration as her mind was still groggy. Was it the pounding of her heart, she wondered, as she was ripped from her recurring Tommy Skilling dream into consciousness? Or maybe the hammering was her head, a hangover from the last bottle of wine she had polished off before going to sleep for the winter. She did enjoy her pre-nap Chardonnay. Also her post-nap one.
“What is that noise?!” she shrieked. “If they have started fracking again, I’m going to chew through the brake lines of all their vehicles.”
The pounding suddenly stopped and the upside down head of the weasel popped into the woodchuck’s burrow. “Hey, Phil, you up?” he shouted.
“Well, I’m awake because someone has been using a jack hammer above my bed, but that doesn’t mean I’m up. I’m hibernating, damn it. And don’t call me Phil. I hate that nickname.”
“Okay, Philomena, but nap time is over. Doncha know what day it is?”
“Of course I know what day it is,” she snapped, as she glanced at her iPhone and realized with dismay that it was dead because she had forgotten to plug the charger in and had, in fact, no clue. “It’s Tuesday.”
“Nice try, dummy,” smirked the weasel. “Try Friday. The second day of the second month. Come on, baby, it’s named for you!”
The woodchuck glanced over at the paper planner that she still kept in her burrow. She knew it was old-fashioned but it came in handy whenever her T-Mobile went out, which was always. Also it had pictures of kittens on it. There was a red circle around February 2.
“It’s Groundhog Day!” yelled the weasel unnecessarily. He was so rude to her, and she hadn’t yet forgiven him for not telling her to put on the special glasses during the eclipse. She was still not completely recovered from her vision issues, although she could see a shadowy silhouette of his body. His short little legs were hilarious.
“I’m not doing it this year,” she announced. “I’ve already been up once and I need to rest.”
“Whatta ya talking about? It’s still cold out – why would you have been up?”
“If you weren’t so busy killing five times your body weight in prey and read a newspaper once in a while, you would know why. Honestly, that habit of storing your leftover rabbit parts in your burrow is disgusting. Don’t you know there is political turmoil everywhere and people are marching in the streets? We are the Resistance! We have to take back the government!”
“Oh yeah, how ya gonna do that? Make some little signs and walk in a circle with all the other land beavers?”
“That’s a rude way to put it but, yes, that’s what we did. There were more than a million of us, and we marched in solidarity with all of our sisters and supportive brothers who promised to stop abusing their power for the afternoon. There were gopher and squirrels, prairie dogs and marmots, all of us united as one! It was glorious! I got a t-shirt!”
The weasel saw some bent cardboard in the corner and turned it over. It was a hand-lettered sign in red and blue marker that read, “Impeach the Treason Weasel!” The letters were outlined in glitter glue and gave the message a festive, sparkly look. “Hey, you mentioned me!”
“Your name seems to come up a lot. Just the other day, the former head of the FBI mentioned you in a tweet. He said “But take heart: American history shows that, in the long run, weasels and liars never hold the field, so long as good people stand up.” I assume he meant woodchucks as well, although it would be nice if he were more inclusive.”
“I didn’t hear nothing about rodents marching. I woulda gone to it – sounds like dinner to me!”
“That’s because you get all your news from the Fox and he never mentions anything like that. Although, no one else did either. Millions of woodchucks in the streets with something to say and they interviewed a bunch of white guys on all the news shows. I hate Chuck Todd.”
“What about your meteorologist gig? You gonna go outside and make your prediction?”
“To quote the bio-pic they made about my life –without permission, I might add– “I’ll give you a winter prediction: It’s gonna be cold, it’s gonna be gray, and it’s gonna last you for the rest of your life.” Or at least until the mid-terms.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I’m going back to bed. You want to know what the weather is, go call Tommy Skilling. He’s much more accurate than a simple whistle pig, plus he knows tons about tornadoes. And tell your cousin Devin to stop hanging around my burrow. Apparently he didn’t get the memo I sent him telling him I think he’s creep.”