The woodchuck sat quietly in the dark, her small paws folded over her belly. She wasn’t sure what to do with herself. Plans for continuing hibernation had been set aside; being tired all the time was better than the constant nightmares she had been having while asleep.
Two nights ago, she had woken up for a quick pee and stupidly checked her phone—she knew better than to expose her scarred retinas to blue light at night, but was hoping to find out if Gail was having Nathan’s baby on the final episode of Below Deck. Instead, her feed had instantly filled with horrible videos of masked (L)ice agents doing what they had become known for—destroying people’s lives.
Survival in the wild was always difficult, but the animals accepted that as part of life. The woodchuck was grateful that her eyes, ears and nose were all on top of her head: she could listen for the predatory screams of hawks and keep a look out for coyotes or dogs all at the same time. Those were instinctive actions she could take to protect herself from the dangerous physical world she lived in, and she felt confident in her ability to survive. But how was she supposed to deal with the despair she now felt when the predators were changing the rules daily? When the Weasel and his sycophantic ferrets were now assuming the role of Hunter and they were all the huntees? It violated the Laws of Nature, as well as about a hundred commandments.
She felt desperately alone. There was nothing worse than being awake while the rest of the meadow was in deep slumber. She needed Shirley to help her calm down, but she knew she could not violate the sanctity of her cousin’s hibernation; you deserved to get a chunk bitten out of your haunch if you woke someone up.
The woodchuck poked her head out of the burrow, just in case there might be others having the same problem. She did a slow 360 degree scan around the deserted meadow, barely moving her head, and ended up back at the beginning of the panorama just as a pair of beady black eyes met hers.
She let out a shriek that was quickly muffled by a slapped paw over her mouth as Shirley hissed, “Shhhh—you’ll wake everyone up!”
Just knowing her cousin was up made her feel better. The groundhogs huddled together in the burrow and spoke in hushed tones about what was happening above ground. The woodchuck wasn’t good at sharing her feelings, and she trembled as she told her cousin how utterly helpless she felt to do anything.
Shirley paused and then said, “Now don’t roll your eyes at me; I’m going to tell you a story. Many years ago (46 to be exact), a volcano called Mt. St. Helens erupted. It spewed ash and debris over 135 square miles of woods—not our forest, another one far way. The blast zone was covered with fallen ash so thick it was deeper than several woodchucks, completely obscuring the soil below. Nothing could grow there. A few years later after the ash had cooled, scientists saw how barren the area had stayed. They got the idea to bring in some gophers to try to dig below the surface.”
The woodchuck interrupted to blow a raspberry and make a disparaging remark about gophers. “People think they are groundhogs who need orthodontia and we get blamed all the time when they dig up golf courses!”
“I know you are not a fan of them, but hear me out,” continued Shirley. “The scientists airlifted a bunch of gophers into the area and dropped them into the ash covered forest. And the gophers did what they do best—they started to dig. They were only there for 24 hours, but they were able to irrigate the ground and allow fungi and microbes to come to the surface and penetrate the roots of plants so they could regenerate. Six years later, there were 40,000 plants thriving in that area.”
“The gophers got to ride in a helicopter?”
“You’re missing the point! They brought back an entire ecosystem! If a couple of dumb gophers can bring about a change like that, who can say what a few individuals can do? Maybe we are not as powerless as we think we are.”
“There are no volcanos around here . . .”
“Oh, for God’s sake! It’s a metaphor!” shouted Shirley.
“Wait, you didn’t let me finish. So if stupid gophers can bring about change, then we much smarter woodchucks—or anyone, I guess, no matter how insignificant they are, even squirrels—have the potential to change the world. If you don’t want there to be ash, you can dig up some fungi!”
“Close enough,” yawned Shirley. “Let’s try to get some sleep and we’ll work on saving the world when we’re better rested.”
The woodchuck paused for a moment and sent out a silent prayer for an orphaned six-year-old and a devastated family. “Shirley, what about a tshirt that says Don’t be an ashhole; be a fungi!”
The soothing reverberation of her cousin’s snores filled the burrow as the woodchuck snuggled up to her favorite furry relative and closed her eyes, thoughts of branding and marketing filling her head. If she sold enough of the tshirts, maybe she could afford a ride in a helicopter.
• • •
I haven’t stopped writing 2025 on my checks yet because it feels like nothing has changed. If you find it hard to stay positive in these dark days of winter, I hope you have a Shirley in your life who will tell you a story that is a tortured metaphor for not losing hope. Words to live by: Don’t be an ashhole; be a fungi!
• • •
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 