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.
theblindwoodchuck.com 