“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 was 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?!”
Th 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. They 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.
theblindwoodchuck.com 