The woodchuck held the poultice against her jaw while she held her nose. The fragrant package was an expertly wrapped catalpa leaf filled with elderberries and herbs that was Cousin Shirley’s secret healing potion. No one really knew what was in it, but the woodchuck was quite certain that stinkbugs were involved. The smell was so disgusting you forgot it hurt.
An aching tooth had necessitated a visit to the local beaver, who was the designated oral specialist of the forest because he had the biggest teeth. He chewed an extra sharp point on a stick and then plunged into her mouth, emerging triumphant and crowing, “Got it! That was a nasty one!”
Resting in her burrow, her tongue sought out the gaping hole in her gum. She had newfound respect for the author James Frey who had written about his root canal being performed without anesthesia. The whole story had turned out to be a lie and Oprah had shamed him on national television, but the woodchuck agreed with his account of the procedure. She felt certain hers had been more painful and was considering writing the real version of it.
Shirley came down the burrow with a new poultice, this one smelling of lavender and skunk, which was not a good combination. As she held it against the woodchuck’s swollen jaw, she giggled a bit and murmured “You look like a chipmunk.”
The woodchuck was instantly enraged. To be compared to a hated chipmunk while she was at her lowest made her want to bite her cousin. Although she had always been shaped like a casaba melon, she knew her trim snout and furry cheeks were adorable. Shirley quickly realized her error and changed the subject. “We need to get you strong because there is another march coming up and the chuckleheads are counting on you to lead it.”
The woodchuck moaned. It was bad enough that her mouth hurt— now there was another march? It was July and the meadow was like the surface of the sun. Why couldn’t they protest in better weather? She would prefer 76 degrees with a light breeze.
The woodchuck was not just swollen but tired. It felt like all they did these days was march and make phone calls, and what did it get them? The iguanas were gone; even Steve had left the safety of her bathroom to go incognito in the forest. The meadow was eerily quiet with many animals preferring to hide than face the deputy weasels who were stirring up trouble. It seemed like a good plan.
“I don’t think I’ll be well enough to join in,” she said weakly, even though the march wasn’t for two more weeks. “My snout hurts, too, and . . . wait, who did you say was counting on me?”
“The young animals of the meadow are looking to you to lead them—they know you are our wisest and most trusted elder —although they say you look as young as one of them. Your fans call themselves Chuckleheads! I heard they are having jackets made.”
The woodchuck sat up a little straighter. The swelling in her jaw seemed to have gone down while the swelling of her head increased. She liked the idea that she had followers, because in her opinion she was a born leader.
“They will do whatever I say?” she asked cautiously. “Are they a cult?”
“They say they aren’t,” shrugged Shirley, “although one of the badgers has a hat that says Make All Groundhogs Armadillos. It’s a stupid slogan and they could certainly use some guidance.”
The woodchuck was very tempted. She could rule the meadow! Her minions would dig her a larger burrow so she wouldn’t get dirt under her claws; they would gather cicadas and tasty snacks for her while she lounged in the sun and shouted orders that made no sense. But it wouldn’t matter because she was in charge and they would follow her into hell, even if it was at the expense of their own well-being. What a great con this would be!
Shirley was looking at her expectantly and the woodchuck wondered if this was a test. Her SAT scores had been terrible, and she hated being judged this way. The silence lengthened as the dream of having a golden toilet in her bathroom tunnel slowly slipped away and she reluctantly muttered, “I guess I will lead the March—we’ll get in Good Trouble together.”
“Good answer!” Shirley grinned. “I’ll bet you had a 1600 on that test where you had to sit for a long time.”
After her cousin finally left, the woodchuck decided that instead of being a great leader, she would be a great writer. Neither one of those things seemed that hard. She opened a new Word doc and typed the title: A Million Little Pieces (or How to REALLY Survive a Root Canal and Pick Out the Little Pieces of Wood the Beaver Left in There).
If you’re tired of being in a cult, consider marching against a leader who I’m sure didn’t get 1600 on his SATs (and probably cheated on them as well). July 17 is the fifth anniversary of the death of John Lewis, and we march to get into Good Trouble. I can practically guarantee it won’t be 76 degrees with a light breeze.
theblindwoodchuck.com 