The Blind Woodchuck – theblindwoodchuck.com

For Good

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.

You Say You Want a Resolution

The woodchuck squeezed her belly upwards through the tunnel entrance to her burrow; she could barely fit through it. She took this as an encouraging sign she was ready for hibernation, although a few more Snickers bars couldn’t hurt. She sniffed the cold, clear air and spent a few peaceful moments watching the snowflakes flutter to the ground, when a snickering came from behind the flat rock. Two of the Weasel’s elite guardian ferrets were pointing at her and making snorty, giggling sounds.

“Hey, I heard you won the Fattest Woodchuck Contest!” one of them taunted. “You barely got out of the burrow!” There was usually a pile of dirt at the entrance of the hole she had dug that was now gone, and she realized the ferrets had shoveled it back into the burrow to make it seem like she was too fat to get out.

“Hey, Ferret Buehler, come over here;” the woodchuck beckoned to the two skinny animals. “Do you know why we get so chonky just before we go to bed for a few months?” The foolish ferrets ambled over, convinced there was safety in numbers, when the woodchuck grabbed their legs and pinned them both under her belly like an irritated sumo wrestler whose thong was too tight.

“I will live off my body fat for the next few months, cozy in my burrow, while you two skeletal freaks are out scrounging around looking for food in the middle of winter!” There was muffled screaming and gasping coming from under her body, and the woodchuck teased, “Buehler? Buehler?” She gave them another thirty seconds before hearing one whimper uncle and rolling off them. “I’m going to tell my uncle, the weasel!” one of them sobbed as they limped off. “Life moves pretty fast,” shouted the woodchuck after them. “If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could get sat on.”

She chuckled as they disappeared; hibernation was her favorite time of year and that encounter had put her in a good mood. She was very late to the Big Sleep, but the weasel had been inflicting so much chaos on the forest this fall that she had not been able to settle down. She ambled over to Shirley’s burrow to say good night, knowing that her cousin had been dealing with the same issues she had and was overcompensating for the insomnia by painting woodchucks in the style of Bob Ross.

“Look who’s here!” said Shirley in a strained voice. “You remember our cousin Tawny from the next meadow over —she just dropped by!”

The woodchuck had many cousins but had trouble distinguishing one from another—they all looked pretty much the same to her. She did not remember there being a Tawny in the family, and this one seemed larger than life.

“Tawny is an influencer,” Shirley explained through gritted teeth. “You’ve probably seen the videos she makes where she exercises to Kenny Loggins’ songs and sells cicada protein shakes. She is trying to persuade our fellow groundhogs to get into wellness and to be careful with the winter weight gain.”

“The winter weight gain, as she puts it, is what allows us to survive underground until spring,” muttered the woodchuck. “Why does everyone get so weird about diets this time of year?”

“You know, your snout is adorable,” gushed Tawny. “But if you plumped up your lips a bit, I’ll bet you could attract some attention from that gentleman groundhog in the next burrow. There’s a racoon a few trees down who can poke you in the mouth with a tiny sharp stick about a hundred times.”

Shirley quickly changed the subject. “Has everyone made their New Year’s resolutions?”

“I’ve tried, but honestly, restaurants won’t save tables for rodents. It’s so racist!” complained Tawny.

“Um, I believe that’s reservations, Tawny. I’m talking about what you plan to do in the new year to become a better woodchuck.”

“I have some reservations about this whole conversation. . .” started the woodchuck, but Tawny interrupted.

“My plan is to try Chat GLP-1; that same raccoon with the tiny sticks can also talk you into trying those weight loss drugs.”

“Tawny, if you took those shots and then slept three months, you would come out of hibernation looking like Ariane Grande’s clavicles. For heaven’s sake, eat a Snickers bar.”

“Oh, I loved her in Wicked! I’m so glad she teamed up with the Wizard—he really knew what was best for the people of Oz.”

“You thought the Wizard was the hero of that movie?” The woodchuck turned to Shirley and whispered, “Are you sure she’s a groundhog? She seems more like a mink or a hoary marmot.”

After Tawny’s complete rundown of every Real Housewife episode, the woodchuck managed to extricate herself from Shirley’s burrow and head back to her own. She was yawning as scurried across the meadow and realized she was finally ready for hibernation. She felt bad for abandoning her cousin to Tawny’s reviews of different reality TV franchises but was certain the monotonous squeak of her voice would drop Shirley into a coma soon enough.

Damn, it had been a long year. She closed her eyes and slept.

• • •

Wishing you the peace that would come from a three-month nap in a cozy burrow, and the energy that will be needed to confront the challenges of the coming year. Happy New Year!

You’re still here? It’s over. Go home. Go!

• • •

Oz Long as You’re Mine

The pyramid of groundhogs reached high into the sky, five layers of furry cheerleaders with an unbalanced center of gravity that made the tower impressive, but precarious. At the very top, wearing long, lacy tendrils of moss that fluttered in the wind, stood the blind woodchuck. She’d had glow worms for lunch so the fur around her mouth was stained green, and she was singing at the top of her lungs. As she reached the crescendo, she leaped off the back of the stack of her cousins and soared into the air, the cloak whipping out behind her as she flew into the ether and then landed with a thud about eight inches from the pyramid. “Everyone deserves to fly!” she shouted.

While the woodchuck was not an experienced cheer flyer, she did consider herself a musical theater savant. She could quote obscure Sondheim lyrics and entire Original Broadway casts. She was still mortified by the memory of a trivia contest where she had shouted out the winner of the 2004 Tony Award for Best Musical as Wicked. Her team had been embarrassed and demoralized when all the others had answered correctly with Avenue Q, and jeered at them for forgetting one of the biggest upsets in Broadway history.

In spite of that embarrassing faux paw, she still knew all the words to Wicked and had been acting out the flying scene for the past year. She had substituted chipmunks for the flying monkeys, and they wore tiny hats made of acorn caps. She couldn’t wait for the sequel, Wicked: For Good.

Shirley wasn’t quite as invested in the movie as the woodchuck, but she was a good sport and wrapped herself in a tutu made of pink insulation to cosplay Glinda.

The nearby AMC theater had a back door that was frequently propped open with a brick to accommodate the weed vaping ushers on their breaks, so the woodchucks could choose any theater showing Wicked. They avoided the one in 3D because it made Shirley nauseous. The floor was littered with a variety of quality snacks, and they found a flannel scarf that had slid between the seats to curl up on. The movie was quite long, and Shirley dozed off about halfway through the film.

“Shirley, wake up!” hissed the woodchuck. “I just realized this story is not about finding your power within while singing fabulous songs—the wizard is a lying dictator who is trying to capture and jail animals and make them lose their ability to speak out against injustice. It’s not a fairy tale at all–—it’s a modern-day morality warning about the weasel and how gullible most of us are!”

Shirley sat up, startled, just in time to see the scene where the animals were stampeding out of the forest. “Hey, is that your cousin Kevin next to the wildebeest? I had no idea he was doing extra work now.”

“Yes, I’m really annoyed he got a part and I didn’t, but you’re missing the point. The Wizard was fake and had no real power, just like the weasel. He lies all the time, but animals believe him because he has a good PR team. Also, vicious flying monkeys, which are more intimidating than ferrets.”

Shirley yawned and pulled a gummie she had been lying on out of her fur. “Honey, you know I like it when you’re involved in current events, but you may be reading just a little too much into this comparison. But at least the movie is almost over— I was about to go into hibernation.”

“It’s also got a Christo fascism undertone to it! Did you see the part where they beat up Fiyero and then hung him on the scarecrow pole like it was a crucifixion? He represented Jesus! And the Holy Trinity of Dorothy, the Tin Man, and the Lion brought him Frankincense, courage, and a heart in a bucket of water.”

“Did you drink all the brown liquid in that cup? You seem a little overcaffeinated to me. What am I sitting on?” The woodchuck giggled and said “You have gummie bears stuck all over your butt. I’ve been eating them through the movie!” She peeled one off and popped it in her mouth.

A bright light suddenly blinded them and a voice whispered, “Wow, tiny animal friends living under the seats. Cool.” The two woodchucks froze, not sure if they should flee or attack, when the disembodied voice (which was attached to a very stoned usher) continued. “Have you possums seen my bag of gummies? They fell out of my pocket and there’s so much junk on the floor I can’t tell them from the Milk Duds or Junior Mints.”

The woodchuck hesitated and then slowly turned Shirley around; her furry haunches were covered with gayly colored gummie bears.

“There they are!” As he plucked them from Shirley’s hind quarters, he started softly singing, “Who can say if I’ve been changed for the better? But because I knew you . . .”

Shirley turned around in horror as she heard the blind woodchuck harmonize “. . . because I knew you . . .”

They finished in unison: “I have been changed, For Good.”

Shirley started slowly backing away, dragging her cousin by her stubby tail. The usher stood up unsteadily and muttered “Did that really just happen? Damn, that squirrel’s harmony was spot on.”

The two woodchucks were out of the theater and halfway home before the credits were over, Shirley dragging the limp body of her cousin. The blind woodchuck looked up at the starry sky and said dreamily, “Do you think he’ll marry me?”

“That dude at the theater? I certainly hope not. He probably makes $11 an hour, he’s a different species, and he thinks you’re a squirrel.” The woodchuck had passed out by the time Shirley pushed her into her burrow and made sure there was a glass of water and an aspirin next to the snoring body. As she climbed up and out to head to her own burrow, she heard the blind woodchuck muttering “you were there . . . and you were there.”

Shirley smiled to herself. The material from this little excursion was going keep her going for months.

• • •

What’s your favorite obscure Sondheim lyric? Mine is “Such lovely Blue Danu-be music how can you be still?” from the underrated Do I Hear a Waltz?

• • •

A Charmin’ Tale

The odor was getting intense as the woodchuck followed the toxic cloud through the tunnels of her burrow. Where was it coming from? It smelled like a toilet had exploded but it wasn’t from her own segregated bathroom area—she kept that very tidy with mint and lavender PooPourri she gathered from the meadow. She might be an animal, but she certainly didn’t have to live like one.

“Watch out!” The warning shout was overwhelmed by a sickening squelching sound as her hind quarters sank deeply into a disgusting pile, and she found herself midway up her haunch in someone else’s poop. The woodchuck was so incensed she couldn’t formulate words, just sputtering expletives and variations on Eewwwww.

“I tried to warn you,” said her very unhelpful cousin Shirley, her head sticking down in the entrance while she held her snout. “The weasel has been going around taking a dump in the burrows of animals who Marched a few weeks ago.” She extended a paw to her cousin and with a mighty heave, pulled the woodchuck up and out of the tunnel with an embarrassing sucking sound. The woodchuck rolled in the dry grass and scooted like a dog with clogged anal glands, but the smell had inhabited her being like an odorous poltergeist. She finally plunged into the nearby stream and stayed underwater as long as possible, much to the horror of the beavers who were doing some finishing work on their latest dam. The ferret keeping watch snickered and jeered, and then scurried off to report to the weasel, hoping to move up through the ranks of deputies to Number 2.

Finally clean, lying on a large, flat rock to dry in the sun, the woodchuck thought about what the weasel had done. There were droppings everywhere in the meadow and a lot of information could be gathered from the spoor dotting the field; what kind of seed and nuts were in season, who’d been eating leftover Halloween Tootsie Rolls with the wrapper on, that sort of thing. On the next rock over, a colony of rabbits was engaged in a game of coprophagia roulette. They were tossing pellets of their own turds into each other’s mouths—when the catcher caught one, the hare who threw it had to do a shot of carrot juice and then a verse of Little Bunny Foo Foo. They called it scat singing.

Shirley brought over some catalpa leaves to absorb the moisture, and as she dried off her cousin, the woodchuck sat up and declared, “Only I get to poop in my burrow! I am going to get revenge!”

“Well, you can’t do anything to physically to harm him because the ferrets are always around and they will cut you. I think the best route is to find a way to prank him. You know how much he hates to be laughed at.” The woodchuck agreed and the two of them started brainstorming ideas for some payback humiliation.

“Maybe we could set up a Wheel of Fortune game and get him to play, and every time he tries to solve the puzzle, all the other players could shout “Vanna, he would like to buy a bowel!”

Bad ideas were bounced back and forth, and the two rodents were getting sillier. Shirley had been pacing while dropping one-liners “. . . and then the waiter says, “May I take your ordure?!” and finally collapsed on the flat rock. Her butt came in contact with two catalpa leaves that were stuck together and as she flattened them, it made a small Pffttt! sound.

“You farted!” shrieked the woodchuck, gasping for breath. “I did not,” Shirley fiercely defended her dignity. “It was the leaves; they had air between them . . .” her voice trailed off as she looked at what she had sat on. “The meadow is basically one big toilet, so why is farting still so embarrassing?”

The blind woodchuck picked up the leaf and said thoughtfully, “You know, we could make a whole bunch of these . . .”

“. . . and distribute them all over the grass,” Shirley added.

The woodchuck continued excitedly ” . . . and then scratch A Message from Your Leader across the front . . .”

“. . . so it sounds like he’s farting!” the two of them shouted in unison.

Soon the entire meadow was on board, as the weasel had dropped his excremental calling card in each of their homes. It was fall and the giant catalpa leaves carpeted the ground, making the gathering of raw materials simple. A production line was set up and everyone worked together, sealing the edges of two leaves together with sap. The platypus had a glue gun, which was even faster. The woodchuck could not figure out how it was working as there was no electricity in the meadow, and when questioned, the platypus looked at her blankly and said, “I have a long extension cord.”

The chipmunks had the best penmanship, and they busied themselves scratching the message across the front. The possums blew a little air into the opening, and soon there was a pile of innocent looking catalpa bombs. They were scattered across the meadow and the woods, blending into the fallen leaves like tiny flatulent mines.

“He’s coming!” the beaver hissed. The crowd of animals silently parted as the weasel and his crew of ferrets started to walk through them. He made the royal wave as he walked on his hind legs, already assuming that his manure message had not been wasted. They were his subjects now and he demanded their respect.

As he stepped forward, there was suddenly a loud farting noise. The crowd held its breath, and the weasel said, “I didn’t do that!” He looked at one of the ferrets behind him who blushed and waved sheepishly as he accepted the blame.

The weasel took another step, and the sound was even louder. His pace quickened and the farts kept coming; soon he was running and the rapid machine gun repeat of ca-ca-ca-ca-ca-ca-ca followed him as the animals pointed and laughed, chanting, “He who smelt it dealt it!”

The weasel and his minions disappeared into the forest, the mockery of the animals echoing through the trees. The woodland creatures knew he would be back—this was not the dunghill he would die on—but they took their small victories when they could get them. It had been a long day, and they were all pooped. It was time to go home.

• • •

I freely share this idea with the world, so if anyone wants to start a GoFund Me to produce Whoopee Cushions with A Message from Your President scrawled across the front, go for it! They could be passed out at the next March and would also make a lovely souvenir.

• • •

Yes, And . . .Or

“Shirley! Shirley! Wake up!” The blind woodchuck shook her cousin as hard as she could until her relative finally sat up and sleepily asked “Is it the Rapture?”

“No, you idiot, I need your password. The mouse streaming service stopped working.”

Shirley yawned hugely and sat up. “I told you I canceled that as a boycott when they took that TV guy off the air. I said you have eleven days to watch whatever you’re in the middle of and then it’s gone.”

“But I had to finish Love is Blind before I could go back to the Star Wars one. I have two episodes left… do they win the rebellion? I need to see what happens! Can’t you get it back?”

“That kind of defeats the idea of a boycott. Speaking of protests, are you ready for this weekend?”

The woodchuck sulked. “I’m not going.”

Shirley was incensed. “You told me if I took that improv class with you, you would come with me! Why are you reneging on your promise?”

“I have my reasons . . .” began the woodchuck when Shirley cut her off.

“Let’s do that thing we learned in the improv class and you can explain them to me: you start.”

“Um, well, for one thing, it’s going rain.”

“Yes, and . . .” Shirley interrupted. “We’ve been in a drought all summer. Rain will feel wonderful. Next?”

“It will be cold if we get wet!”

“Yes, and . . . the last time we did this it was about 100 degrees. Also, you’re wearing a fur coat.”

“What if I get hungry?”

“Yes, and . . . there will be dropped snacks all over.”

“You know I don’t like crowds!”

“Yes, and . . . we don’t have to be in the middle; we’ll stay on the outside of the masses.”

“I don’t have a sign!”

“Yes, and . . . you don’t have to have one; but I have cardboard and markers if you want to make one with your famous bubble letters.”

“Shirley . . .” the woodchuck paused for a long time, and then said in a small voice, “I’m afraid.”

“Oh, honey, Yes, and so am I. But we’ll hold each other’s paws and try to be brave together. Remember, we have friends everywhere, and they will be there with us.”

The woodchuck sighed and realized her cousin was right. For as many excuses as she had for not going to the No Kings March, she knew showing up was the most important thing.

As she uncapped the blue market to make a sign reading Welcome to the Rebelion, she teased Shirley, “Did you really think if there was a Rapture that you would be among the chosen to go?”

Shirley threw the red marker at her and said, “You spelled “rebellion” wrong!”

• • •

Yes, and . . . everyone has reasons why going to the No Kings March this Saturday, October 18 might be inconvenient or scary, but it’s very important. So pull on your inflatable Frog suit or T-Rex costume and join us!

• • •

You Say Floatato, I Say Floatahto

The blind woodchuck contemplated the pictures of the different candidates, concentrating deeply. She knew casting her vote was her right as a citizen and she took that responsibility very seriously. As a hibernating mammal herself, the Fat Bear Week contest was her favorite pre-winter activity, along with eating her own weight in cicadas and Snickers bars to prepare for the Big Sleep. She was partial to bear 32 Chunk but felt a duty to vote for bear 128 Grazer— she always wanted the girls to win. She wished there was a Fattest Woodchuck Contest, because she would have aced that one.

There was some kind of ruckus going on outside her burrow, so she reluctantly bookmarked the voting site. Poking her head out of the hole, she was alarmed to see a group of wild ferrets surrounding her cousin, Shirley, as she waved a flyer in the air and chanted “No More Kings!” The minions of the weasel, their faces covered with catalpa leaves, were pushing and shoving the smaller animals and the woodchuck feared the situation was about to erupt into violence. But Shirley shouted “Hawk!” and the supporters and the ferrets scattered and ducked into various unseen holes. Her cousin made an obscene gesture at the retreating minions and ducked into the woodchuck’s burrow.

“I’m trying to get everyone excited about the next March but they keep censoring me. How do I get the word out?” A disconsolate Shirley was difficult to watch, so the woodchuck did not mention that her cousin was so loud she could stand on a molehill and shout out the information, and everyone would hear her.

“What if we try something different?” the woodchuck mused. “My nephews, Marlin and Perkins, told me they had eaten their way through a wall and some insulation and had ended up in a kind of studio with recording equipment. Perkins said he thought the pink stuff was cotton candy and it was kind of itchy going down, but he liked it.”

“You want us to make a Public Service Announcement? I don’t think anyone would pay attention to that.”

“No, the animals don’t want to be preached at. But what if we make it a talk show?! We could do a sketch about the next March and the date—make them understand that saving Democracy is a hoot! And I should be the host, because I’m the funny one.”

“You really think you’re funny?” Shirley seemed skeptical.

“Yes!” The woodchuck was offended. “I was telling the platypus a story the other day and it was rolling in the dirt, laughing hysterically.”

“I don’t think the platypus has ears,” muttered Shirley, “but I guess we can try it.”

• • •

The woodchuck sat nervously behind the desk on the set, her cousin Marlin manning the camera. It looked very impressive, even though it was not plugged in. There was a window in the small studio that looked out onto a parking lot, and many of the animals from the meadow were gathered there to watch the show. The atmosphere was festive as Perkins moved among the crowd, handing out paper cones with the pink fluffy stuff wrapped around them; the anticipation was high as the very first episode of Be Wild, Kingdom! went live.

“5 …4…3…” Marlin counted her in silently. The woodchuck sat there, wondering why he wasn’t saying anything. “Go!” he hissed.

“Oh! Welcome, meadow friends! We’ve got a great show for you tonight; the comedy stylings of the mole man, a beaver carving my likeness from a stump, an excerpt from The Taming of the Shrew performed by real shrews . . .” as the woodchuck listed all the acts to come, she noticed the ferrets with their catalpa-covered faces moving toward the window, glaring intimidatingly at her.

“Um, and we have the chipmunks Chip and Dale, singing . . . no, wait they cancelled because their boss said no, but we do have an interpretive dance for gun control by Bambi’s stepmother . . . what, she got cancelled, too?” The woodchuck gulped and stared at the crowd of expectant faces waiting for her to entertain them—this was harder than she had thought it would be. Suddenly a tiny head popped up right in front of the window and waved. It was Steve! Her favorite iguana and best friend who had been hiding from the L(Ice) men in the forest. He had come back to support her at great personal risk, and she watched in horror as the ferrets moved toward him.

Except he wasn’t a lizard anymore; he had morphed into what looked like a pile of pink spun fiberglass laying on the ground. The ferrets stopped, confused, as the crowd started pushing and shouting at them. The weasel minions realized they were outnumbered and began to slink away, cowed by the angry yelling of the animals. Steve turned back into a lizard and grinned encouragingly at her.

“My first guest tonight is someone you all know and love. My cousin Shirley is going to tell us about the next No Kings March coming up on October 18^th and why it is so important to show up in huge numbers. The election in the next few days is also critical, so here she is to give us the lowdown.”

Shirley came dancing out in a bear suit, swinging a salmon over her head, and the crowd went wild. “Vote in the Fat Bear Week contest today, and march for Democracy in October!”

• • •

The Blind Woodchuck and I both like it when the girls win, but my personal favorite in the Fat Bear Week contest is Bear 602, also known as “Floatato”. He likes to lounge in the river while floating on his back looking like a large baked potato. His bio informs us “he can be identified by a peculiar stomping dance that he displays in moments when his excitement level appears to be high”. Whichever bear delights you, don’t forget to vote!

• • •

Baby’s Got Back

The woodchuck lay on her back, tiny paws waving helplessly in the air. She had been stuck in this position for a while, like a large bug that had flipped and could not recenter whatever core muscles were required to override the useless spine that should have been holding her in an upright sitting position. She had new respect for cockroaches who righted themselves.

Today was her birthday, and while the thought of getting older was always annoying, today it was infuriating. How was she supposed to look amazed when they shouted Surprise! and brought in the flaming cake if she couldn’t sit up? (It was wildfire season in the forest but she was sure a cake wouldn’t be a problem. There weren’t that many candles.)

Pill bugs were camping out in her burrow and she had sent them to find her cousin Shirley, but it could be weeks before they got to her. Even snails were faster than pill bugs—they accelerated when going downhill but climbing up was a problem.

She recently scavenged a turntable from the dump and had been enjoying some mellow Fleetwood Mac before her back muscles had given out. Now the record kept skipping and repeating the phrase . . . And I’m getting older, too. She imagined taking one of Stevie’s scarves and stuffing it in her mouth just to shut her up.

This was not how she had envisioned her golden years. Why had there been no retirement party when she was suddenly laid off from predicting the weather in Punxsutawney? Where was the Mexican time share she thought she would own by now? And why had she taken democracy for granted for such a long time— what she wouldn’t give to wake up every morning not filled with dread about what the weasel might do that day.

Whining was not gratifying if there was no one there to feel sorry for you. She decided she would try positive thinking instead, except the skipping record was driving her crazy. She felt around in the dirt for something to throw at the turntable and her paw landed on a book she had found in one of those boxes on a stick. The chewy pages were good roughage that helped keep her incisors from growing through the roof of her mouth, and the glue on the spine was tasty. She could really use some spine glue right now, she thought. She didn’t usually bother to read the stuff inside, but this one had caught her attention: it was called Animal Farm. She thought it might have woodchucks in it.

An hour later, horrified, she flung the book away and it hit the turntable, sending the needle screeching across the record. She suddenly found herself sitting up, shaking with fear and anger. There were no groundhogs in the slim volume, but it felt like a roadmap for what the weasel was doing right now. Lying to turn the animals against each other, convincing them the meadow was a dangerous place to be and keeping all the spoils for themselves, the weasel and his minions were using an agenda that had been around since the 1930s as a playbook.

“Hey, birthday girl!” Shirley shouted down the tunnel. “I’m here to flip you over—oh, you’re up.”

“Shirley,” gasped the woodchuck, grabbing her cousin’s paw. “It’s a trap! The weasel is trying to convince us that all animals are equal but some are more equal than others. He is the lead pig Napolean from the book, and Stephen Miller is Squealer! We’re gonna need a landslide to bring them down!”

“Why don’t you tell me about it?” Shirley murmured, comforting the woodchuck as she recounted the story, and thought slipping that book into the Little Library was the best birthday present she could have given her clueless cousin. She wasn’t sure where the Fleetwood Mac reference came from, but it wasn’t wrong.

Even though the author claims not to be the woodchuck (and the woodchuck denies it as well), they do share the same birthday. They both have a request for their special day: be kind to each other, read a book once in a while, and don’t jump to conclusions about things in the media until all the facts are verified. Also, cake.

There is another NoKings March coming up on October 18, so mark your calendars.

• • •

I know there are some problems with Substack and their non-censorship of nazis, but I believe there are more of us woodchucks than there are weasels, amirite? Like the Von Trapp family, we will walk over the alps before we hang their flag!

The Garden of Eatin’

The giant orb hung above the woodchuck, radiating heat and energy. It seemed close enough to touch, even though her tiny paws were but a few inches long. The elders whispered that this solar sucking super sphere powered all human life, and she truly believed it. She took a deep breath and inhaled the aroma that gave meaning to the season: a ruby fruit so ripe it looked like it was about to explode.

The woodchuck lay on her back surrounded by the exuberant viridian tangle. The zucchini were bigger than beavers and there were too many damn cucumbers to even count. Tiny pumpkins waited for a Halloween growth spurt as their tendrils entwined with long strings of pole beans; and the curly leaves of kale rustled like petticoats in the breeze.

This garden brought the joy that had been tamped down by the oppressive heat of the weasel’s breath. She had been waiting through the long cold winter (which started on Jan. 20th) and the soggy spring for it to reach peak fruitability, and it was finally time for her reward. If they weren’t going to release the Epstein files, she would at least have this.

Technically, it wasn’t actually her garden; most of the heavy lifting was done by the human in the big hat whose knees made a loud popping sound when she got down on the ground to weed. The woodchuck made the same moaning noise when she had to get up from a kneeling position, so she felt like they were kindred spirits.

Her contribution to the garden was a series of tunnels she kept digging around the plants as a way to allow the rainwater to get to the tasty roots. It was confusing when she visited and found the holes stuffed with stones and steel wool. The woodchuck assumed the prankster badgers were doing that; honey badgers don’t care about soil irrigation.

She stretched out a talon and tapped the red rubber ball; it began a gentle sway that reverberated throughout the greenery. The stem was so thin! How did it support the flaming sphere that had absorbed every bit of sunlight and rain it could muster to produce a cherry bomb that was as radiant as the cape as red as blood?

Oh, great. Now she had Sondheim stuck in her head. She hummed rooting through my rutabaga, raiding my arugula . . . before she forgot the words and focused on the perfect snack hanging before her.

The last seven months had been rough—the weasel had driven away most of the animals who removed the vegetables from this garden so the bounty was hers alone, but she felt guilty knowing she had the pick of the crop. Not guilty enough to leave, but enough to feel a little bad.

She kept hearing that the only way to get through the turmoil enveloping the meadow was to find small bursts of joy. This particular burst was bigger than her head, and she was very grateful for this plump pasta sidekick that would help her forget the misery the weasel and his minions were inflicting on everyone.

She closed her eyes, opened her mouth as wide as she could, and pierced the taut skin with an incisor sharpened by years of chewing on less delicious things. The spatter range exploded across her belly as a crimson tide of juice ran down into the furry folds of her neck and the gelatinous membrane willingly gave up its slippery seeds and scarlet meat. Great moments of her life flashed before her eyes as she experienced all that was good in the world in this one perfect bite.

She lay on her back savoring the last sip of a taste that could only be described as red. She would not go back for another bite—it would only dim the radiance. A second mouthful would be ketchup. Besides, she wanted to leave the rest of this beefy beauty to the human she shared the garden with—she was thoughtful that way.

As the woodchuck ambled away from the patch, licking her paws and dislodging a seed from between her teeth, she heard an anguished cry from her partner in dirt as the lady with the big hat discovered her prize-winning tomato had a huge hole in the side. Her knees made that weird popping sound as she fell to the ground.

You’re welcome thought the woodchuck. It was a good day.

• • •

This homage is brought to you by the tomato I ate last week that made me swoon. Take a break from the headlines and immerse yourself in the bounty that is summer!

Guy Clark said it best.

• • •

Cult Classic

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.

And to Think That I Wanted a Mulberry Tree! (again)

(with apologies to Dr. Seuss)

(Can’t believe it’s time for the annual posting of this homage to Theodor Seuss Geisel. The little suckers are three weeks later than last year, which means they had time to gather their internal lethal juices so they explode with a spatter range of maroon that puts Quentin Tarantino flicks to shame. It would be amazing if it weren’t so awful.)

When I was much younger and without a clue,
I bought a big house with a big backyard, too.
I gazed at the plants and the flowers and bees,
And said “Look over there! It’s a Mulberry Tree!”

How lovely the shade a Mulberry makes.
Berries galore! All the pies that I’d bake!
I’d hang colored lights in the twigs oh so tall –
Such thoughts fill your head when you buy in the fall.

But then comes the spring and the branches are full,
Of the tiny green berries that soon will be mull.
And you stare at the many and think “Surely not!”
There can’t be — it couldn’t! — but it sure seems alot!

And, finally, summer, and the fruit overhead,
Gets heavy and turns a dark ominous red.
And before you can say “Happy Fourth of July!”
Their stems all let go and they plunge from the sky.

In bunches! In torrents! In great globs they fall!
‘Till you can’t see the ground or the grass not at all.
And you wonder if Prince wrote the song “Purple Rain”,
When he witnessed his deck become one big red stain .

Then the dog goes outside and they get tween her toes,
In her fur! In her paws! On her head! In her nose!
And so back in the house, she goes in a sprint,
Leaving a trail of maroon doggie prints.

And the birdies all come here to snack and to pick,
‘Till the yard looks like some kind of Alfred H. flick.
And they screech and they poop and they make such a mess
That you wish they’d go find someone else’s address.

So you get out the hose and you wash off the sauce,
And you say to yourself “Guess I showed them who’s boss!”
As you settle back into your deck chair to snooze,
And they pelt you, you see they are laughing at you!

“It’s a war you can’t win!” they all seem to say,
As they merrily bounce both this and that way.
“We’re with you till August and longer!” they tease,
“And nothing you do can get us to leave!”

And the sad thing is that you sure know they are right,
As they land with a thud both by day and by night.
You’ve tried pruning and cutting and various sprays
That would kill buffalo but not a berry was fazed.

And to think that I wanted a Mulberry Tree!
Long ‘for I knew it would just bring debris.
But I won’t let them win! I’ll lay down the law!
My next major purchase will be a chainsaw!

I may not have shade. I may broil in the sun.
But I have to admit just the thought of it’s fun!
All those quivering berries as I cut down that tree,
It’s the last time that fruit will be laughing at me!

The Blind Woodchuck does not appreciate being hijacked by some wannabe poet, and wants to emphasize that she quite enjoys mulberries, especially the ones that gush when you bite into them. Sometimes there are bees attached, which gives the berry an extra crunch when you pop it in your mouth. Texture is everything in a well-balanced bite.