The blind woodchuck contemplated the pictures of the different candidates, concentrating deeply. She knew casting her vote was her right as a citizen and she took that responsibility very seriously. As a hibernating mammal herself, the Fat Bear Week contest was her favorite pre-winter activity, along with eating her own weight in cicadas and Snickers bars to prepare for the Big Sleep. She was partial to bear 32 Chunk but felt a duty to vote for bear 128 Grazer— she always wanted the girls to win. She wished there was a Fattest Woodchuck Contest, because she would have aced that one.
There was some kind of ruckus going on outside her burrow, so she reluctantly bookmarked the voting site. Poking her head out of the hole, she was alarmed to see a group of wild ferrets surrounding her cousin, Shirley, as she waved a flyer in the air and chanted “No More Kings!” The minions of the weasel, their faces covered with catalpa leaves, were pushing and shoving the smaller animals and the woodchuck feared the situation was about to erupt into violence. But Shirley shouted “Hawk!” and the supporters and the ferrets scattered and ducked into various unseen holes. Her cousin made an obscene gesture at the retreating minions and ducked into the woodchuck’s burrow.
“I’m trying to get everyone excited about the next March but they keep censoring me. How do I get the word out?” A disconsolate Shirley was difficult to watch, so the woodchuck did not mention that her cousin was so loud she could stand on a molehill and shout out the information, and everyone would hear her.
“What if we try something different?” the woodchuck mused. “My nephews, Marlin and Perkins, told me they had eaten their way through a wall and some insulation and had ended up in a kind of studio with recording equipment. Perkins said he thought the pink stuff was cotton candy and it was kind of itchy going down, but he liked it.”
“You want us to make a Public Service Announcement? I don’t think anyone would pay attention to that.”
“No, the animals don’t want to be preached at. But what if we make it a talk show?! We could do a sketch about the next March and the date—make them understand that saving Democracy is a hoot! And I should be the host, because I’m the funny one.”
“You really think you’re funny?” Shirley seemed skeptical.
“Yes!” The woodchuck was offended. “I was telling the platypus a story the other day and it was rolling in the dirt, laughing hysterically.”
“I don’t think the platypus has ears,” muttered Shirley, “but I guess we can try it.”
• • •
The woodchuck sat nervously behind the desk on the set, her cousin Marlin manning the camera. It looked very impressive, even though it was not plugged in. There was a window in the small studio that looked out onto a parking lot, and many of the animals from the meadow were gathered there to watch the show. The atmosphere was festive as Perkins moved among the crowd, handing out paper cones with the pink fluffy stuff wrapped around them; the anticipation was high as the very first episode of Be Wild, Kingdom! went live.
“5 …4…3…” Marlin counted her in silently. The woodchuck sat there, wondering why he wasn’t saying anything. “Go!” he hissed.
“Oh! Welcome, meadow friends! We’ve got a great show for you tonight; the comedy stylings of the mole man, a beaver carving my likeness from a stump, an excerpt from The Taming of the Shrew performed by real shrews . . .” as the woodchuck listed all the acts to come, she noticed the ferrets with their catalpa-covered faces moving toward the window, glaring intimidatingly at her.
“Um, and we have the chipmunks Chip and Dale, singing . . . no, wait they cancelled because their boss said no, but we do have an interpretive dance for gun control by Bambi’s stepmother . . . what, she got cancelled, too?” The woodchuck gulped and stared at the crowd of expectant faces waiting for her to entertain them—this was harder than she had thought it would be. Suddenly a tiny head popped up right in front of the window and waved. It was Steve! Her favorite iguana and best friend who had been hiding from the L(Ice) men in the forest. He had come back to support her at great personal risk, and she watched in horror as the ferrets moved toward him.
Except he wasn’t a lizard anymore; he had morphed into what looked like a pile of pink spun fiberglass laying on the ground. The ferrets stopped, confused, as the crowd started pushing and shouting at them. The weasel minions realized they were outnumbered and began to slink away, cowed by the angry yelling of the animals. Steve turned back into a lizard and grinned encouragingly at her.
“My first guest tonight is someone you all know and love. My cousin Shirley is going to tell us about the next No Kings March coming up on October 18th and why it is so important to show up in huge numbers. The election in the next few days is also critical, so here she is to give us the lowdown.”
Shirley came dancing out in a bear suit, swinging a salmon over her head, and the crowd went wild. “Vote in the Fat Bear Week contest today, and march for Democracy in October!”
• • •
The Blind Woodchuck and I both like it when the girls win, but my personal favorite in the Fat Bear Week contest is Bear 602, also known as “Floatato”. He likes to lounge in the river while floating on his back looking like a large baked potato. His bio informs us “he can be identified by a peculiar stomping dance that he displays in moments when his excitement level appears to be high”. Whichever bear delights you, don’t forget to vote!
• • •
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.
theblindwoodchuck.com 