As the morning light filtered into the tunnel, the blind woodchuck moaned and sat up. Torn candy wrappers littered the dirt around her like fallen leaves, and the crunchy sound they made when she rolled over them gave the burrow a festive autumn feel. Something was poking her left haunch, and she batted at it until she realized it was a melted Snickers bar that was stuck in her fur. Barely able to reach over her swollen belly, she licked at the hairy chocolate lump until it completely dissolved in her mouth. What a delightful way to take a bath, she thought.
Getting up the day after a foggy Halloween was always difficult. She had found that bad visibility was a friend to the rodents who scavenged for a living, as it tripped up little trick-or-treaters who scattered their candy as they fell. She knew she should save some of her stash for the long winter ahead, but common sense did not always prevail when a mound of Mounds bars presented themselves to her. There was another pile of things she had collected from broken treat bags, and she sorted through the non-edibles in case she had missed something. She spit out a spider that appeared to have been petrified, wondering how old that thing was. There was a long skinny wooden stick with a rubbery end and a sharp point that could be useful as weapon, so she set that aside. There was also a piece of paper that had a lot of writing on it, but it was wet and smudged. The only part she could make out said, “GET OUT THE VOLE!” in large letters.
The woodchuck was alarmed. She had heard rumours of some kind of caravan of these mice that was coming from another field, and she worried that they were almost here. Although the woodchuck and the vole were both rodents, she felt no camaraderie with the smaller animals. She disliked it when they came to her field uninvited, even though she knew they were trying to escape predators. They were voracious consumers of her favorite nuts, and she often worried that there wouldn’t be enough daffodil bulbs left to help her double her weight for hibernation. It did not occur to her that the calories she had consumed last night would put her well past her goal.
There had also been chatter that the voles and the moles had been working together, which was an odd thing since they traditionally had little in common. The moles liked to hang out in gangs, so if in fact they were all coming to her field, the confrontation was going to be at West Side Story levels. She picked up the sharpened pencil and hummed a few bars of “Tonight.”
“Phil? Are you up?!” Her cousin’s head poked upside down inside the burrow. “Phil!”
“You know I hate to be called that,” she hissed. Her cousin scampered down the tunnel and looked disapprovingly at the piles of wrappers. “What a mess. Your mother would be heartbroken to see what a hoarder you’ve become.”
“I’m not a hoarder! This is all from last night. Shirley, did you see this flyer? The voles are coming! They’re the ones that carry the hantavirus. Or maybe it’s the plague? One of those diseases that’s really bad, I can’t remember! What are we going to do?!”
“First of all, Phil, you’re going to calm down. This stuff about the caravan is nonsense. It’s not herds of mice – it’s a group of our species who need some help. The weasels are attacking them and their food supplies are running low, yet you’re acting like they are invading our field.”
“But the fox said . . .”
“Stop listening to that Ichabod Crane wannabe with the pumpkin head! You’re getting all worked up over nothing.”
“Look at this warning flyer I found.” The woodchuck thrust the paper with the smudgy words “GET OUT THE VOLE” at her cousin. “Read what they said!”
“Philomena, take off those stupid sunglasses. You’re in a dark burrow and you’re not blind anymore! It doesn’t say GET OUT THE VOLE, you idiot. Look at it again.”
The not-really-blind woodchuck removed her sunglasses and took a long look at the headline. In large black letters it said GET OUT THE VOTE!
“Oh. It’s not . . . vole.”
“Look, Phil, I know the eclipse messed you up, but you can see again and you have to start questioning things. Those glasses are like blinders. You simply can’t believe everything the Fox tells you. He does not have your best interests at heart; or any of us other animals, either. So let’s go do what the flyer says. Are you ready?
“Yes, I’m ready. Let’s go! Um, Shirley?
“What now, Phil?”
“You have a Snickers bar stuck to your butt.”
Unfortunately, woodchucks are not allowed to vote. But you are! Do it for all the marsupials who have no say at the ballot box.