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.
theblindwoodchuck.com 