blind woodchuck – theblindwoodchuck.com

Heavy Mutant Sub-Variants

A musty odor permeated the dirt of the burrow, as if someone had left a pile of wet towels on a muskrat in the toilet. The blind woodchuck was a tidy animal and hated the mildew smell that accumulated when it rained, but it was hard to keep everything fresh when water gushed down the walls and pooled on the floor. Her paws were always dirty now and she had to wash her feet before she went to bed at night.

It had been a summer of record-breaking storms and heat, and although she hated the constant dampness, at least her meadow wasn’t on fire like many other places. Still, her burrow was often filled with the choking smoke of wildfires from far away, and she found herself constantly refreshing her weather app to see what the air quality number was.

Anxiety about the unpredictable weather had made the animals tense. The beavers had started a gang war with the otters about who controlled the flow of the river. The flat-tailed tree-chewers kept damming up the streams that were nearly clearing the banks in hopes of controlling flooding, while the otters preferred the white waters raging as they body surfed across the surface. Technically, the beavers were being responsible, but they had to admit the otters seem to be having a lot more fun.

The most upsetting thing about the weird weather had been the way it affected the woodchuck’s favorite food. The annual movable feast of tasty cicadas had emerged as usual in the spring, but after each big storm, there were hardly any to be found. The thundering winds uprooted hundred-year-old trees and shook the branches free of the clingy insects. Just last week, the woodchuck had stood at the entrance to her burrow and watched her hibernation stash get blown out of the state. She shook her tiny fist at the swirling husks of her lunch; and then sneezed delicately.

Now she lay in her damp burrow and sneezed fourteen times in a row. Shirley put her paw on her cousin’s forehead and shook her head. “You’re more than warm-blooded now —you’re positively hot.” The woodchuck would have taken that as a compliment if she hadn’t felt so miserable. “I’ve put out a call to the duck docs but they seem to have flown the coop,” said Shirley. “The weasel and the ferrets have been after them lately to distract from this stupid bear war they keep prolonging.” The mallards were the ones with the most medical knowledge and one in particular was considered an expert. His name was Tony, but everyone called him Dr. Fowl-ci. This water bird had been professional and clearheaded during the years of the pandemic scare and was a trusted source of advice.

Steve the Iguana poked his head into the burrow and handed Shirley a note. The duck doctor had refused to speak on the advice of counsel but had written down a diagnosis on a scrap of paper.

“My dear woodchuck, you appear to be suffering from a new heavily mutated subvariant of the Covid virus*. It mimics the behavior of certain insects—initially emerging, going dormant and then resurfacing months later. Therefore, we are calling it the Cicada variant. There is no proof this virus comes from eating cicadas, but it wouldn’t hurt to cut down. You do have a tendency to hog all the ones found in the meadow. You will be fine in three days. Love, Tony.”

The woodchuck and Shirley had decided a few months ago that they would not worry about the upcoming elections until the fall; they would soak up the heat of the endless sunshine and bask in the joys of a summer abundance of berries and crisp greens. They would gorge on cicadas until their bellies could barely fit down the tunnels of their burrows and they would be wild animals as long as they could, even if it meant pretending everything was just fine. The woodchuck sneezed again, and Shirley started coughing.

Somewhere in the meadow, a dumpster burst into flames.

• • •

Thoughts of a glorious summer often fill our heads as we shiver in the cold months, but those fantasies are not always fulfilled. A full 90 days of summer is not promised to anyone, so gather ye cicadas while you can and for God’s sake,
don’t eat any lettuce. We’ll be in the middle of midterms soon enough, so put on a shitload of bug spray and go outside.

*The “Cicada” variant (officially BA.3.2) is a heavily mutated Omicron-related subvariant of SARS-CoV-2 that has been circulating globally and across the United States. It earned its nickname because it mimics the behavior of cicada insects—initially emerging, going dormant or quiet under the radar, and then resurfacing months later. [1, 2, 3]

• • •

Faster, Higher, Stupider

“HAWK!”

The raucous fighting in the burrow immediately ceased, as every animal hit the ground and covered their eyes. Silence was instantaneous as a musky smell of terror hovered over the dirt floor. “Pardon me,” whispered the skunk.

“Y’all are so loud I feel like I’m losing my mind,” muttered the blind woodchuck.

One by one, the marmots and squirrels and skunks and lemurs and wood frogs and every other creature who should have been asleep but were not, slowly sat up and sheepishly realized that predators can’t fly into tunnels.

The woodchuck understood that the non-hibernating clan who were crammed into her burrow were there because the world above ground was too scary to face; they were looking for comfort and safety as the weasel and his ferret minions were terrorizing the meadow. But the noise level of woke, chattering animals was more than her nerves could stand, and the while her shout had been the equivalent of shouting Man is in the Forest! in a theater, it was effective. They shut up.

“What are you all arguing about? One at a time!” warned the woodchuck.

“We were watching that big sports event,” said the marmot, “and the flying squirrels were boasting about who could go higher and then one accused the other of padding his nuts to get more height when gliding, and then all hell broke loose. Also, we just realized the winners were getting cute stuffed animals and we all want one so we can carry it around like that monkey.”

“You do realize that adorable stuffie you want is a stoat?” asked Shirley. The woodchuck’s cousin knew all the correct names of the animals. “Um, sure,” said the marmot, not really knowing that but thinking about checking out the dumpster behind IKEA to see if anyone had tossed out an orange stuffed orangutan.

“A stoat is a member of the weasel family!” shouted Shirley. “Do you really want a lovie that is a fake fur version of your oppressor?!”

The animals were horrified and immediately began backtracking, saying they were appalled and would never watch this sport thing again.

“What if . . .” began the woodchuck, realizing that if she ever wanted peace in her burrow, she would have to plan an activity to tire everyone out, “we hold our own version of the games? And instead of passing out stuffed weasels, we’ll give everyone a live chipmunk!”

“Hey!” protested the chipmunks, but they were drowned out as everyone started discussing what sport they would perform.

A pair of minks were new to the neighborhood and had joined the crowd in the burrow just to see what all the noise was about; they immediately chose pairs skating, because they were long and elegant and knew they would look fabulous in flowing silk outfits. They started speaking with French accents in case the French hen judge was listening.

The woodchuck was happy her friend Steve the iguana was in the crowd and the two of them decided with his tiny hands to steer and her awesome bulk in the back, they could crush the bobsled. They had watched Cool Runnings together last spring and then spoke with Jamaican accents for weeks, which the mink couple thought was cultural appropriation. The mink adjusted their berets and called the bobsledders le ratel et le lézard, not realizing that the woodchuck was not a honey badger and would probably rip their faces off if she had been.

The frogs were appointed as figure skaters because they were good jumpers; they were fine with that until they realized they were supposed to turn around four times while in midair. There was one who was pretty sure he could do that and started calling himself the Quad Frog, but that was because he had licked a hallucinogenic toad and believed it was true. After the colorful cane toad had been passed around, the rest of frogs believed they were champions, too, and started doing backflips.

All the remaining animals were separated into two hockey teams, with the platypus coaching the females and the beaver as general manager of the males. “Wait, shouldn’t the beaver be in charge of the girls?!” one of the otters shouted, to the uproarious laughter of his team. “Shirts or skins?!” The platypus slapped a frozen disc of deer skat spinning across the floor and knocked out one of the beaver’s front teeth, and the otters shut up.

The woodchuck had been gathering food before the cold set in, and in her pile of bugs and scraps there was a small box with the picture of a white castle containing very old onion rings. Much to her annoyance, Shirley strung the snacks together and hung them across the burrow, declaring The First Annual Hypnos Games were now open!

The animals looked at each other in confusion and the noise level started rising again, when a small voice in the corner spoke up. “I believe Hypnos is the Greek god of sleep, and since we aren’t, the Games take his name to honor him and hope he eventually helps us to slumber.” Shirley nodded in delight that someone had caught the reference, and the Limnos Blind Mole-rat continued with a complete history of how the various Greco-Roman gods had influenced the sport. “Who is this guy?” whispered the woodchuck, as the mole-rat began reciting The Odyssey in its original Greek form. “I think he was visiting some rat cousins and got stuck here,” said Shirley. “He’s from a Greek island called Limnos.”

The agitated animals found themselves soothed by the soft, droning voice, and their heads started to droop one by one as the monotone lulled them into a stupor. Soon everyone was asleep, with the exception of Steve the iguana who was fascinated to discover that he might be a descendent from Gecko-Roman gods.

“That worked out well,” murmured Shirley to the woodchuck as they curled up together in the now silent burrow. “If we can just get through the rest of hibernation without waking up to find the weasel has done something else stupid and illegal.”

“Oh, you mean like declaring we’re at war with bears?!” laughed the woodchuck.

They both slept.

• • •

I wish The First Annual Hypnos Games were being televised, because I could sure use something to put me to sleep in the midst of this waking nightmare we are all in. I would definitely be rooting for the Quad Frog. Also, the next No Kings March is March 28—put it in your phone!

• • •

The woodchuck has a new burrow! You can still hang around here with the other woodland animals, but the iguanas and the platypus have moved over to Substack, where they hope to reach millions of new readers and possibly amass a fortune in cicadas! (The woodchuck doesn’t really expect you to hand over your tasty bugs—she’s just hoping for new eyes to read about her adventures.) Look for her at The Blind Woodchuck on Substack.

Baby’s Got Back

The woodchuck lay on her back, tiny paws waving helplessly in the air. She had been stuck in this position for a while, like a large bug that had flipped and could not recenter whatever core muscles were required to override the useless spine that should have been holding her in an upright sitting position. She had new respect for cockroaches who righted themselves.

Today was her birthday, and while the thought of getting older was always annoying, today it was infuriating. How was she supposed to look amazed when they shouted Surprise! and brought in the flaming cake if she couldn’t sit up? (It was wildfire season in the forest but she was sure a cake wouldn’t be a problem. There weren’t that many candles.)

Pill bugs were camping out in her burrow and she had sent them to find her cousin Shirley, but it could be weeks before they got to her. Even snails were faster than pill bugs—they accelerated when going downhill but climbing up was a problem.

She recently scavenged a turntable from the dump and had been enjoying some mellow Fleetwood Mac before her back muscles had given out. Now the record kept skipping and repeating the phrase . . . And I’m getting older, too. She imagined taking one of Stevie’s scarves and stuffing it in her mouth just to shut her up.

This was not how she had envisioned her golden years. Why had there been no retirement party when she was suddenly laid off from predicting the weather in Punxsutawney? Where was the Mexican time share she thought she would own by now? And why had she taken democracy for granted for such a long time— what she wouldn’t give to wake up every morning not filled with dread about what the weasel might do that day.

Whining was not gratifying if there was no one there to feel sorry for you. She decided she would try positive thinking instead, except the skipping record was driving her crazy. She felt around in the dirt for something to throw at the turntable and her paw landed on a book she had found in one of those boxes on a stick. The chewy pages were good roughage that helped keep her incisors from growing through the roof of her mouth, and the glue on the spine was tasty. She could really use some spine glue right now, she thought. She didn’t usually bother to read the stuff inside, but this one had caught her attention: it was called Animal Farm. She thought it might have woodchucks in it.

An hour later, horrified, she flung the book away and it hit the turntable, sending the needle screeching across the record. She suddenly found herself sitting up, shaking with fear and anger. There were no groundhogs in the slim volume, but it felt like a roadmap for what the weasel was doing right now. Lying to turn the animals against each other, convincing them the meadow was a dangerous place to be and keeping all the spoils for themselves, the weasel and his minions were using an agenda that had been around since the 1930s as a playbook.

“Hey, birthday girl!” Shirley shouted down the tunnel. “I’m here to flip you over—oh, you’re up.”

“Shirley,” gasped the woodchuck, grabbing her cousin’s paw. “It’s a trap! The weasel is trying to convince us that all animals are equal but some are more equal than others. He is the lead pig Napolean from the book, and Stephen Miller is Squealer! We’re gonna need a landslide to bring them down!”

“Why don’t you tell me about it?” Shirley murmured, comforting the woodchuck as she recounted the story, and thought slipping that book into the Little Library was the best birthday present she could have given her clueless cousin. She wasn’t sure where the Fleetwood Mac reference came from, but it wasn’t wrong.

Even though the author claims not to be the woodchuck (and the woodchuck denies it as well), they do share the same birthday. They both have a request for their special day: be kind to each other, read a book once in a while, and don’t jump to conclusions about things in the media until all the facts are verified. Also, cake.

There is another NoKings March coming up on October 18, so mark your calendars.

• • •

I know there are some problems with Substack and their non-censorship of nazis, but I believe there are more of us woodchucks than there are weasels, amirite? Like the Von Trapp family, we will walk over the alps before we hang their flag!

The Garden of Eatin’

The giant orb hung above the woodchuck, radiating heat and energy. It seemed close enough to touch, even though her tiny paws were but a few inches long. The elders whispered that this solar sucking super sphere powered all human life, and she truly believed it. She took a deep breath and inhaled the aroma that gave meaning to the season: a ruby fruit so ripe it looked like it was about to explode.

The woodchuck lay on her back surrounded by the exuberant viridian tangle. The zucchini were bigger than beavers and there were too many damn cucumbers to even count. Tiny pumpkins waited for a Halloween growth spurt as their tendrils entwined with long strings of pole beans; and the curly leaves of kale rustled like petticoats in the breeze.

This garden brought the joy that had been tamped down by the oppressive heat of the weasel’s breath. She had been waiting through the long cold winter (which started on Jan. 20th) and the soggy spring for it to reach peak fruitability, and it was finally time for her reward. If they weren’t going to release the Epstein files, she would at least have this.

Technically, it wasn’t actually her garden; most of the heavy lifting was done by the human in the big hat whose knees made a loud popping sound when she got down on the ground to weed. The woodchuck made the same moaning noise when she had to get up from a kneeling position, so she felt like they were kindred spirits.

Her contribution to the garden was a series of tunnels she kept digging around the plants as a way to allow the rainwater to get to the tasty roots. It was confusing when she visited and found the holes stuffed with stones and steel wool. The woodchuck assumed the prankster badgers were doing that; honey badgers don’t care about soil irrigation.

She stretched out a talon and tapped the red rubber ball; it began a gentle sway that reverberated throughout the greenery. The stem was so thin! How did it support the flaming sphere that had absorbed every bit of sunlight and rain it could muster to produce a cherry bomb that was as radiant as the cape as red as blood?

Oh, great. Now she had Sondheim stuck in her head. She hummed rooting through my rutabaga, raiding my arugula . . . before she forgot the words and focused on the perfect snack hanging before her.

The last seven months had been rough—the weasel had driven away most of the animals who removed the vegetables from this garden so the bounty was hers alone, but she felt guilty knowing she had the pick of the crop. Not guilty enough to leave, but enough to feel a little bad.

She kept hearing that the only way to get through the turmoil enveloping the meadow was to find small bursts of joy. This particular burst was bigger than her head, and she was very grateful for this plump pasta sidekick that would help her forget the misery the weasel and his minions were inflicting on everyone.

She closed her eyes, opened her mouth as wide as she could, and pierced the taut skin with an incisor sharpened by years of chewing on less delicious things. The spatter range exploded across her belly as a crimson tide of juice ran down into the furry folds of her neck and the gelatinous membrane willingly gave up its slippery seeds and scarlet meat. Great moments of her life flashed before her eyes as she experienced all that was good in the world in this one perfect bite.

She lay on her back savoring the last sip of a taste that could only be described as red. She would not go back for another bite—it would only dim the radiance. A second mouthful would be ketchup. Besides, she wanted to leave the rest of this beefy beauty to the human she shared the garden with—she was thoughtful that way.

As the woodchuck ambled away from the patch, licking her paws and dislodging a seed from between her teeth, she heard an anguished cry from her partner in dirt as the lady with the big hat discovered her prize-winning tomato had a huge hole in the side. Her knees made that weird popping sound as she fell to the ground.

You’re welcome thought the woodchuck. It was a good day.

• • •

This homage is brought to you by the tomato I ate last week that made me swoon. Take a break from the headlines and immerse yourself in the bounty that is summer!

Guy Clark said it best.

• • •

L(Ice), L(Ice), baby

The meadow had been tense the last few weeks as deputy weasels roamed the area, slapping together sticks and dragging away animals they didn’t like, which seemed to be everyone. The groundhog had gone deep beneath the meadow, hoping if she stayed quiet, they wouldn’t bother her. She knew she outweighed the skinny little freaks, so that was an advantage.

The blind woodchuck buried her head in some leaves in her burrow and tried to muffle the yelling that was coming from above ground. She had almost fallen back to sleep when the shouting voice was suddenly right in her ear: “Wake up!” her cousin screamed, “they are trying to deport Steve!”

The woodchuck sat up abruptly. This was not her fight—she just wanted to be left alone. She’d been sleeping a lot lately, which was odd in the spring because she should be out looking for a hook up. But Steve was her favorite iguana who had come to live in the meadow just a short time ago. He was the worse card player ever and her best friend.

“Where is he?” she demanded of her cousin. “Is he safe?” Shirley put a single talon to her lips and pointed to a tunnel off to the left. “When we saw the L(Ice) men cometh, I told him to hide in your bathroom,” she whispered. The meadow population had started calling the enforcers L(Ice), because they were covered in tiny bugs. Thinking about them made the woodchuck scratch her haunch furiously. You could see the minute vermin crawling in and out of the fake flak vests they had ordered from that company along the Amazon River.

“Just because they are enjoying their armadillo cosplay doesn’t mean they have any authority!” hissed the woodchuck. “You and I know that,” said Shirley, “but the foxes keep telling everyone the iguanas are criminals, not just bad card players. The animals don’t know who to believe.”

“We need to do something to distract from L(Ice) so that the iguanas have time to escape. You organize a rally to get all the other woodland creatures out marching and yelling and singing protest songs, and I will focus on expanding the tunnels so the lizards can get across the meadow unseen and into the forest where they will blend in with the leaves”.

There were plenty of unknown factors to deal with—could Shirley get the word out to attract a large crowd to march? Could the woodchuck dig quickly enough to expand the tunnel across the entire meadow? Would the heartbroken iguanas ever believe in the promise of freedom they had found in their new home? Except for the part when they froze stiff if the temperature dipped below 40 degrees, they loved living in the meadow.

A crowd had gathered in the woodchuck’s burrow as the news spread. “I’ll get started on flyers right away,” declared one of the beavers. “Maybe I’ll try using that free design service I’ve heard about—I think it’s called Canvas? It’s like a bag of dried-up markers and robots draw pictures for you?”

“No!” exclaimed the woodchuck. “All signs and flyers should be made by hand—it makes us look less corporate. What should we call the March?”

“I think it should be called No Smoking!” shouted out a capybara. “Because smoking is bad and so is the weasel!” There were shouts of “Yes!” and “The weasel is an Ash Hat!” which had the woodchuck sighing and Shirley rolling her eyes. “No one here has cigarettes, let alone a Bic lighter; we’re not calling it that. Anybody else?”

“The No Parking Rally!” cried the chipmunks in unison. The woodchuck glared at them and said pointedly, “Do you have a car? Or cars?” They shook their heads sullenly and blended back into the crowd. They were sure that one was a winner.

“Here, I made a sign!” The hoary marmot thrust a poster into the air that said No Bakings! in large bubble letters. “Because we are not lumps of sourdough starter that the weasel can mold into any shape he wants—we are a free meadow!”

The woodchuck looked at Shirley, who shook her head imperceptibly. The message was spot on, but the bread metaphor seemed a little flaky. Suddenly the woodchuck grabbed the sign and tore it in half. “Hey!” shouted the marmot. “I worked really hard on that!”

Shirley held up the torn poster for everyone to see: It read No Kings! “This is it!” she shouted. “Because the only king of the forest is the lion, and he doesn’t live anywhere around here, which is just how we like it!”

Cheering ensued and the crowd started making signs for the big march. The woodchuck checked on Steve, who was sleeping comfortably in the bathroom. She didn’t care if it was nit picky—she would hide him from L(Ice) as long as it took.

She began digging.

There are No Kings! marches across all fifty meadows on this Saturday, June 14th. Whether your sign reads No Smoking! or No Baking!, just make sure you’re there!

Birnam Wood(chuck)

Oddly enough, this was not the first time the woodchuck had found herself trapped in a leather backpack, stuffed in an overhead bin. The last time it happened there had been a bit of a ruckus because she had chewed her way out of the bag and run up and down the aisle of the plane, followed by screams of “Rat! Rat!” It had been quite stressful.

She decided this time she would stay put; it was quite cozy nestled amidst the flannel shirts, and she found an old granola bar that would keep her fed. She was just about to take a bite through the wrapper when it was slapped out of her paw. She should have been startled, shrieking at the thought of another creature crammed in the darkness with her, using up all the oxygen and stealing her only food source; but she simply sighed and said “Hello, Shirley”. She had no idea how her cousin had managed to crawl into the same carry on, but it felt inevitable that she had.

“Where are we going?” Shirley was using her loud voice, and there was a noticeable pause in the hum of conversation going on below them in the plane. “London,” someone responded, although why they would answer a disembodied voice was beyond the woodchuck.

Shirley squealed, “Ooh! The Land of Shakespeare and Hugh Grant and . . .” the woodchuck clamped her paw over her cousin’s mouth and whispered, “Shhh—we’re stowaways—no one can know we’re here”. But Shirley got loud when she was anxious and the realization they were flying over an ocean sent her into a panic. There were some interesting pill containers in the carry on and the woodchuck expertly chewed through the child proof cap until she retrieved two small lavender tablets—she wasn’t sure what they were, but they certainly calmed her cousin down. With Shirley snoring in the now shredded flannel shirt, the woodchuck found a tiny hole in the corner of the satchel and caught a glimpse of the seating below when someone opened the bin—they were in Premium Economy! Nice; she hated flying coach.

The woodchuck jolted awake as the backpack was yanked out of the bin. She considered making a run for it but Shirley had lapsed into hibernation mode, so the best option seemed to be just stick with the satchel. She hadn’t had time to consider what going through Customs with two woodchucks in your bag would be like for the Backpack Dude, but he breezed through with a simple flash of his passport. Apparently, England didn’t care who they let into their country.

She’d wanted to taste the famous mushy peas that were a delicacy and marvel at the torture equipment in the Tower of London, but it really was so much simpler to just go wherever the backpack did. A walking tour of Historic London was very educational and relaxing, since she didn’t have to walk at all. She was beginning to think of Backpack Dude as her own sherpa. She stared out the tiny hole at a statue of several sheep who were being honored with the Freedom of the City of London Award*—the herd was apparently allowed to prance across the London Bridge. Imagine the freedom to go where you wanted without fear of reprisal or hawks! Such a civilized country.

The next week was a jumble of bits and pieces of interesting history the woodchuck could pick up from the tour guides. She’d been looking forward to the Victoria Albert museum, but the backpack was checked in the cloak room when a staff member delicately pointed out the extremely strong smell that seemed to be emanating from the interior. The woodchuck wasn’t offended; put two groundhogs in an enclosed space for a week and they were going to have to pee somewhere. If they thought this was bad, they should sniff her burrow at the end of hibernation. Also, those leftover take out mushy peas may have been a mistake.

Shirley was still in a coma, which was a shame because the woodchuck would have liked to discuss the sheep award with her, as well as the resilience of the country. England had been involved in two major wars and many parts of the city were bombed to bits in the Blitz; it survived Brexit and countless royal scandals, and had to put up with pictures of those stupid corgi dogs on all their souvenirs. Yet the city seemed so civilized and polite—it made the woodchuck hopeful that her meadow could survive the terrible era of weasel rule they were currently dealing with back home. Any city that would honor sheep seemed like a place she could get comfortable.

The week went by too quickly and she soon found herself shoved back in the overhead bin. She had never left the satchel. It had been the equivalent of touring the city on top of a red double decker bus, if the bus had been full of fourteen pounds of woodchucks and their poo. She couldn’t wait to brag about how she had backpacked through Europe.

Shirley woke up about five hours into the return flight. “Are we there yet?” she asked groggily. “I can’t wait to get some mushy peas.”

Sometimes the woodchuck and the author have identical experiences, although I wasn’t as excited about the mushy peas (the first time I was served this side dish with fish and chips, I thought it was guacamole). Also, her interpretation of the Freedom of the City of London Award is slightly different than mine, but no less of a delight.

One Pill makes you Larger, and One Pill makes you Small . . .*

The woodchuck laughed and spread her cards on the flat rock. “Full house!” she crowed, slapping down two sevens and three threes. She started to gather up the final pot, which included lettuces, small bugs and her signature shades.

“Wait!” cried one rabbit. “Is this something?” There was a flurry of activity as the bunnies murmured and consulted and then one by one laid down four threes. “Four of a kind!” they shouted in unison.

“You cannot play as a fluffle!” pointed out the woodchuck. “Only one hand per hare!”

But Flopsy, Mopsy and their cousin Pre-Flop knew they were faster than the chubby groundhog and the rabbits scattered, shrieking with laughter and grabbing the pot. She knew they were cheating—she just couldn’t figure out how. There were so many of them that it was confusing as to whose cards belonged to which rabbit.

“We can’t play this weekend!” they shouted back as they hopped in different directions. “It’s the Big Show on Sunday—our favorite day of the year!”

“You are not the Easter Bunny!” screamed the woodchuck, throwing the cards as far as she could. “You are plain brown rabbits! Give me back my sunglasses!”

The woodchuck stood by her insult. She had been digging up tulip bulbs near the mall a few days ago when the real Easter Bunny walked toward the building. This rabbit was seven feet tall with long sleek ears that stood as straight as a meerkat watching for hawks. The satiny pink inner texture of his white hearing appendages made her want to run her paw up and down them and caused her to blush. A halo of sun light surrounded the holiday rabbit as he walked in unassisted on hind legs, his dexterous paws casually holding a cigarette. He was also wearing a pale blue vest with yellow rick rack edging. None of those damn cheating hares had a waistcoat, she was quite sure of that.

Shirley had been observing the card game and shook her head at her cousin’s outrage. “Every year you lose to the bunnies—why don’t you stop gambling and lean into the spirit of the holiday?”

Shirley had recently started exploring her spiritual side while eating her way through a book of children’s bible stories. Half the pages had been missing when she started, so she added her own interpretations. “For example: did you know the three days before Easter—Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and Holy Saturday—are known as the Triduum? I believe that comes from the opening notes of when the Netflix logo first appears just before they show Ben-Hur.”

“What does that have to do with those stupid rabbits?” muttered the woodchuck, now realizing the winning hand they played had meant there were seven threes in the deck.

“Spring is the season of renewal; of budding and flowering and being born, so rabbits are the symbol of fertility. Because they hump like . . . well, rabbits.”

The mention of those hideous hares having an orgy made her think of the Easter Bunny’s long pink inner ears, and she had to stick her head in the creek for a moment.

“Important groundhog traditions come from this celebration!” Shirley continued. “When the bear comes out of his tomb on Easter morning, if he sees his shadow there will be six more weeks of winter. But if he doesn’t, then spring is here and soon we’ll all be humping like. . . well, rabbits.”

The woodchuck was pretty sure there wasn’t a bear involved in Easter (they would later discover the page discussing the Resurrection had been ripped in half and the term bear probably was the first half of either bearded dragon or bearded Jesus). But she let it go because she realized the fleeing, cheating rabbits had left a trail of chocolate covered raisins, and those were her favorite treat. She gathered them up to add to her Easter basket.

*And the ones that mother gives you, don’t do anything at all.

Because the last 90 days have felt like we are all together on a bad hallucinogenic trip, please enjoy this little story about woodchucks and rabbits and don’t think about the weasel or muskrat as they sell the branding rights of the White House Egg Hunt to corporate sponsors. Happy Easter!

The March into April

“Stop doing that!” shouted Shirley, slapping her paw and sending the phone flying.

The blind woodchuck had just reposted a scary warning about Facebook sucking your soul out through the speaker that seemed legit to her, and she really wanted everyone else to know about it.

“It’s not true,” screamed her cousin. “You never check anything, and you keep spreading false information. Dragonflies are not descended from dragons; hoary marmots do not charge for sex!” Shirley stomped off, adding “idiot” under her breath.

The woodchuck retreated to her burrow, sulking. Shirley was always nagging her to get involved, but when she shared valuable information, she got yelled at. She had just read something about the zuckerbug turning into a poodle and her paw itched to share it with the web of connected tunnels, but she couldn’t find her phone.

Shirley poked her head upside down in the tunnel entrance and the phone dropped in with a thunk. “Sorry; didn’t mean to yell,” she mumbled. “I’m feeling very stressed right now. Will you help me make some signs for the big march this weekend?”

The woodchuck loved making posters. She was known for her bubble letters; her stubby taloned paws turned into nimble spider monkey fingers when she held a Sharpie. She shook her head no and turned her back on Shirley. She was still hurt from her cousin’s rant; also, she didn’t want to admit that yesterday she had left the tops off her markers and the lovely scent that had filled her burrow made her giggle for seventeen minutes and then pass out. Her precious tools were now as useless as dried pussy willows.

But Shirley knew her well, and she held out a package of fruit scented markers with only the strawberry one missing. “Found these behind a Staples,” she said slyly. She also had some broken-down Amazon boxes with an inside virgin surface just begging for a pithy saying.

The woodchuck knew her resistance was futile, even though they were supposed to be marching as the resistance. She had a flash of creative genius as she envisioned “Paws Off!”— huge bubble letters drawn with a strong boysenberry outline filled in with kiwi green.

She uncapped the yellow marker and inhaled; staying mad at Shirley was difficult while the aroma of chemically altered lemons filled the burrow. It was as if they were lying in an Italian orchard sipping a limoncello. She would use her persuasive bubble letter skills to save democracy.

Besides, she really wanted to talk to someone about those hoary marmots—she was sure they were prostitutes.

• • •

The blind woodchuck and Shirley are all in for the big “Hands Off” March this Saturday, April 5. During their vaguely hallucinogenic poster making session, they envisioned thousands of animals (and people) walking arm in arm in protest against what the weasel’s administration has done to this country. Fill the streets and take back the forests! Check this link to find a location near you—there are protests happening in every meadow and state.

Don’t forget your signs! Mine says “The Muskrat is a hoary marmot!”

No comas Taco Bell

The woodchuck smoothed out the carefully preserved catalpa leaf and placed it on the sunny rock. The tree lost its leaves in one big clump in the fall and some of them were as big as beavers; after they dried and shriveled, they looked like sleeping rats. The woodchuck was often startled when she went up to talk to one of them and it turned out to be mulch.

Spread out on her favorite rock, though, it made a perfect tablecloth. The day was warm and sunny for the end of February and since she kept waking up from hibernation screaming with anxiety, she figured she may as well have a picnic. She had saved a tidily wrapped little surprise since the end of summer and now it would be her lunch.

As she lifted the slightly stale bean burrito to her mouth, salivating at the thought of the delicious cheese, refried beans and sour cream about to coat her taste buds, it was suddenly slapped out her paw with a howling “STOP!”

Shirley stood over her, quivering with indignation as she pointed the burrito at the woodchuck. “Are you kidding me?” she screamed at her cousin. “We talked about this! We are boycotting Taco Bell because they are huge contributors to the campaigns of the very animals who are trying to destroy our forest and democracy!”

The woodchuck watched in horror as Shirley flung the burrito as far as she could, which was only about seven inches because her front paws were quite short.

“I didn’t buy it,” protested the woodchuck. “I found it behind the dumpster next to the Taco Bell. I don’t think that should count–I’m not supporting them; I’m helping with the problem of food waste!”

Shirley seemed temporarily stumped by this statement–it was a loophole she hadn’t anticipated. “I think you’re being disingenuous; it’s the intent behind the boycott that matters. If you care enough about trying to stop the weasel and the muskrat from destroying everything, then you have to be willing to do whatever it takes, no matter how insignificant it seems.”

The woodchuck didn’t know what disingenuous meant but she would never admit that to her cousin. “I am a true supporter! I emptied all the stuffing out of my WalMart bag quilt and threw it away.” She did not mention that her long toenails had ripped a jagged tear in the plastic and that her burrow was now a snow globe of floating feathers.

“I know you’re trying,” sighed Shirley. “We’re all trying. It doesn’t feel like it’s enough, but every little bit helps, I suppose. Are you ready for the big economic blackout tomorrow?”

“Ready!” shouted the woodchuck, although she was surprised to find out it was finally February 28. This had been the longest month in the history of the world. “I will not spend any money on anything and we will take down the large corporations that depend upon our dollars to buy yachts!”

Shirley seemed pleased with the response and hugged her, neither of them mentioning that they were woodchucks and had no money or opposable thumbs to use credit cards. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” She waved as she left and then thrust a tiny paw in the air. “Cancel your subscription to WaPo! Fuck Jeff Bezos!”

The woodchuck had no idea who Jeff Bezos was, but she nodded enthusiastically. As soon as Shirley was out of sight, she ate the rest of the burrito. It could have used a little more sour cream.

Here is info about the economic blackout, which is on Friday, February 28. So if you need cat food, get it today.

I was very sad to find out that Taco Bell has a high percentage of donations to Republican candidates. RIP, my delicious Caliente Cantina Chicken Quesadilla!

We Are All Florida Now

She glided through the turquoise water as if born with gills, her sleek fins covered in green and gold paillettes that reflected the admiration of the fish who watched her swim. What had once been a furry haunch was now a tail meant for speed; it whipped back and forth and pushed her through the water as silent and deadly as a barracuda. Her top half was encased in two scalloped shells tied together to create a fetching bra, and while she wasn’t exactly Ariel, she could certainly pass as a mermaid at Weeki Watchee Springs*.

She was wrenched from her sea fantasy by the realization that she couldn’t actually breathe underwater and sat up in her burrow, gasping. Her cousin Shirley was standing over her, having just thrown a cup of water in her face. “What the hell did you do that for?” screamed the woodchuck, realizing that her sequined mermaid tail now ended in two dirty paws.

“You were choking in your sleep and I had to wake you up,” pointed out Shirley. “I saved your life! You really should use that CPAP machine.”

“It’s so cold,” the woodchuck whined, now damp and shivering. “I should be deep in hibernation, but my anxiety keeps waking me up. I want to be somewhere warm!’

“Maybe we should move south,” mused Shirley, as she trod on a frozen lump. “Damn, what did I step on?”

“Be careful, that’s Steve. Look, you broke off his tail! Steve! Wake up!”

A mess of iguanas had wandered into the meadow at the end of the summer, tired of politics and fearful of immigration rumors. Originally from Mexico, they had lived in Florida for hundreds of years but that didn’t seem to stop anyone from trying to deport them. They loved the intense heat of the midwestern sun in their new home and could frequently be found sunning themselves on rocks.

The woodchuck adored the iguanas. She thought they were alligators when they first arrived, but soon discovered they were herbivores and not interested in eating her. They were big card players, and the woodchuck had spent many happy hours winning all their insects and leaves. Her favorite part was when they tried to bluff and did not seem to realize their tell was when they turned bright blue. Shirley insisted that wasn’t possible because they were iguanas, not chameleons, but the pile of dried cicadas the woodchuck had won disproved that theory.

Unfortunately, the lizards had not realized what the geographical difference in the climate would eventually bring. The frozen bodies of iguanas were strewn about the floor of the burrow as the temperatures dropped and so did they.

“Don’t worry, they’re not dead, just a little stiff,” the woodchuck reassured her cousin. “Why are you in here?”

“I think we should have a party! Let’s celebrate Groundhog Day and the fact that you don’t have to go to Punxsutawney now because you’re retired!”

The woodchuck could think of several reasons why she hated this idea, but apparently Shirley had already invited everyone in the meadow and animals began pouring into her burrow. As the tunnels filled with the hot breath of furry rodents, the temperature climbed and the iguanas stirred. The dancing started when one of her cousins dragged an old boombox he had found at the dump into the burrow, and the CD stuck inside blasted out the opening brass of the Miami Sound machine. “Come on, shake your body baby do the conga!” they screamed along with Gloria. An otter was keeping the beat on the shell of a turtle that had wandered in as the skunks and raccoons serpentined in and out of the tunnels in a conga line. The song stopped abruptly at “let your body feel the . . .” and then started over, a continuous loop of never-ending bongos. The party raged on, as the opossums shared some fun mushrooms they had found and the rats kept holding up the beaver’s tails to look like they had Micky Mouse ears. The iguanas shouted “ratoncito mickey!” and the revelers erupted in cheers.

The woodchuck watched, not sure if she could summon the energy to join in with this manic crowd. Outside a dumpster fire raged that would soon spread to the meadow, scorching the dry grasses and causing the trees to erupt into tikki torches. A Musky odor seemed to float over the fields like a warning and the air felt charged, as if a hurricane was forming in the Gulf of Meximerica or whatever the weasel was calling it now. The world was terrifying; was it really a good idea to dance and party in denial?

On the plus side, the iguanas had thawed out and Steve’s tail was already growing back. Maybe she could find a few moments of joy with this sweaty, hallucinating group of freaks. A squirrel wearing a French maid outfit passed by with a tray of psilocybin canapés, and the woodchuck popped one in her mouth.

“Ratoncito mickey!” she giggled and merged into the congo line.

• • • • •

*I have no plans to visit Florida soon, as I hate humidity and get sick on roller coasters. Also it feels like I will never sleep again as I keep waking up in despair,
but one day I would love to see the mermaids of https://weekiwachee.com/park-attractions/.

As long as I don’t have to go to Florida to see them.