Tag: The Blind Woodchuck

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.

L(Ice), L(Ice), baby

The meadow had been tense the last few weeks as deputy weasels roamed the area, slapping together sticks and dragging away animals they didn’t like, which seemed to be everyone. The groundhog had gone deep beneath the meadow, hoping if she stayed quiet, they wouldn’t bother her. She knew she outweighed the skinny little freaks, so that was an advantage.

The blind woodchuck buried her head in some leaves in her burrow and tried to muffle the yelling that was coming from above ground. She had almost fallen back to sleep when the shouting voice was suddenly right in her ear: “Wake up!” her cousin screamed, “they are trying to deport Steve!”

The woodchuck sat up abruptly. This was not her fight—she just wanted to be left alone. She’d been sleeping a lot lately, which was odd in the spring because she should be out looking for a hook up. But Steve was her favorite iguana who had come to live in the meadow just a short time ago. He was the worse card player ever and her best friend.

“Where is he?” she demanded of her cousin. “Is he safe?” Shirley put a single talon to her lips and pointed to a tunnel off to the left. “When we saw the L(Ice) men cometh, I told him to hide in your bathroom,” she whispered. The meadow population had started calling the enforcers L(Ice), because they were covered in tiny bugs. Thinking about them made the woodchuck scratch her haunch furiously. You could see the minute vermin crawling in and out of the fake flak vests they had ordered from that company along the Amazon River.

“Just because they are enjoying their armadillo cosplay doesn’t mean they have any authority!” hissed the woodchuck. “You and I know that,” said Shirley, “but the foxes keep telling everyone the iguanas are criminals, not just bad card players. The animals don’t know who to believe.” 

“We need to do something to distract from L(Ice) so that the iguanas have time to escape. You organize a rally to get all the other woodland creatures out marching and yelling and singing protest songs, and I will focus on expanding the tunnels so the lizards can get across the meadow unseen and into the forest where they will blend in with the leaves”.

There were plenty of unknown factors to deal with—could Shirley get the word out to attract a large crowd to march? Could the woodchuck dig quickly enough to expand the tunnel across the entire meadow? Would the heartbroken iguanas ever believe in the promise of freedom they had found in their new home? Except for the part when they froze stiff if the temperature dipped below 40 degrees, they loved living in the meadow.

A crowd had gathered in the woodchuck’s burrow as the news spread. “I’ll get started on flyers right away,” declared one of the beavers. “Maybe I’ll try using that free design service I’ve heard about—I think it’s called Canvas?  It’s like a bag of dried-up markers and robots draw pictures for you?”

“No!” exclaimed the woodchuck. “All signs and flyers should be made by hand—it makes us look less corporate. What should we call the March?”

“I think it should be called No Smoking!” shouted out a capybara. “Because smoking is bad and so is the weasel!” There were shouts of “Yes!” and “The weasel is an Ash Hat!” which had the woodchuck sighing and Shirley rolling her eyes. “No one here has cigarettes, let alone a Bic lighter; we’re not calling it that. Anybody else?”

“The No Parking Rally!” cried the chipmunks in unison. The woodchuck glared at them and said pointedly, “Do you have a car? Or cars?” They shook their heads sullenly and blended back into the crowd. They were sure that one was a winner.

“Here, I made a sign!” The hoary marmot thrust a poster into the air that said No Bakings! in large bubble letters. “Because we are not lumps of sourdough starter that the weasel can mold into any shape he wants—we are a free meadow!”

The woodchuck looked at Shirley, who shook her head imperceptibly. The message was spot on, but the bread metaphor seemed a little flaky. Suddenly the woodchuck grabbed the sign and tore it in half. “Hey!” shouted the marmot. “I worked really hard on that!”

Shirley held up the torn poster for everyone to see: It read No Kings! “This is it!” she shouted. “Because the only king of the forest is the lion, and he doesn’t live anywhere around here, which is just how we like it!”

Cheering ensued and the crowd started making signs for the big march. The woodchuck checked on Steve, who was sleeping comfortably in the bathroom. She didn’t care if it was nit picky—she would hide him from L(Ice) as long as it took.

She began digging.

There are No Kings! marches across all fifty meadows on this Saturday, June 14th. Whether your sign reads No Smoking! or No Baking!, just make sure you’re there!

The March into April

“Stop doing that!” shouted Shirley, slapping her paw and sending the phone flying. 

The blind woodchuck had just reposted a scary warning about Facebook sucking your soul out through the speaker that seemed legit to her, and she really wanted everyone else to know about it.

“It’s not true,” screamed her cousin. “You never check anything, and you keep spreading false information. Dragonflies are not descended from dragons; hoary marmots do not charge for sex!” Shirley stomped off, adding “idiot” under her breath.

The woodchuck retreated to her burrow, sulking. Shirley was always nagging her to get involved, but when she shared valuable information, she got yelled at. She had just read something about the zuckerbug turning into a poodle and her paw itched to share it with the web of connected tunnels, but she couldn’t find her phone.

Shirley poked her head upside down in the tunnel entrance and the phone dropped in with a thunk. “Sorry; didn’t mean to yell,” she mumbled. “I’m feeling very stressed right now. Will you help me make some signs for the big march this weekend?”

The woodchuck loved making posters. She was known for her bubble letters; her stubby taloned paws turned into nimble spider monkey fingers when she held a Sharpie. She shook her head no and turned her back on Shirley. She was still hurt from her cousin’s rant; also, she didn’t want to admit that yesterday she had left the tops off her markers and the lovely scent that had filled her burrow made her giggle for seventeen minutes and then pass out. Her precious tools were now as useless as dried pussy willows.

But Shirley knew her well, and she held out a package of fruit scented markers with only the strawberry one missing. “Found these behind a Staples,” she said slyly. She also had some broken-down Amazon boxes with an inside virgin surface just begging for a pithy saying.

The woodchuck knew her resistance was futile, even though they were supposed to be marching as the resistance. She had a flash of creative genius as she envisioned “Paws Off!”— huge bubble letters drawn with a strong boysenberry outline filled in with kiwi green. 

She uncapped the yellow marker and inhaled; staying mad at Shirley was difficult while the aroma of chemically altered lemons filled the burrow. It was as if they were lying in an Italian orchard sipping a limoncello. She would use her persuasive bubble letter skills to save democracy.

Besides, she really wanted to talk to someone about those hoary marmots—she was sure they were prostitutes. 

• • •

The blind woodchuck and Shirley are all in for the big “Hands Off” March this Saturday, April 5. During their vaguely hallucinogenic poster making session, they envisioned thousands of animals (and people) walking arm in arm in protest against what the weasel’s administration has done to this country. Fill the streets and take back the forests! Check this link to find a location near you—there are protests happening in every meadow and state.

Don’t forget your signs! Mine says “The Muskrat is a hoary marmot!”

Part Three: Every Now and Then I Fall Apart (alternate title: Eat, Prey. Love)

Panic had broken out around her. All the forest animals were aware of the near miss the woodchuck had during the last eclipse and were terrified of not being able to watch for predators. Most had never even realized there were things happening in the skies above them—the only time they looked up was for hawks. Now everyone was suddenly Chicken Little when it came to the sky.

“The birds knew and they didn’t warn us!” screamed the field mice. “It’s a conspiracy!”

“The crickets are in on it, too!” wailed a hedgehog. “How did they know to start chirping? Did they have access to an app that’s only on Android?”

A groundhog, manically running in a circle with his eyes closed, tripped over a root and tore his ACL. He lay on the ground moaning, clutching his wounded limb and making such a racket that it caught the attention of a turkey vulture flying by. This was exactly the kind of eclipse content the bird was hoping for.

The woodchuck was stunned to see the entire meadow and forest had erupted into chaos. Scientists had predicted some animal behaviors might be odd during the eclipse, but not this level of weird. She was horrified to see one of her cousins lying prostrate on the grass, his naked belly exposed to the sky as he screamed incoherently about the end being near. The buzzard certainly seemed to agree with him.

It occurred to the woodchuck that some of the animals might be blaming her for this, which was, of course, ridiculous. All she had done was pretend to be blind for several years to get people to pamper her and bring treats; she never said anything about writhing around on the ground in plain sight of a very large bird with talons and a beak.

Oh. Well, perhaps they had a point.

The woodchuck ducked back into her burrow, uncertain of what to do about the carnage that was about to erupt. Shirley was fully awake now and could hear the screaming above ground. “Do something!” she shouted. “You’re the only one they will listen to!”

The woodchuck did not believe this was necessarily true, but her only other option was going deeper into the burrow and hiding in a tunnel. She glanced wildly around the cozy dark room, trying to think of what to do, when her eyes fell upon a metallic cold food shopping bag she had saved from her last trip to Costco. 

“Shirley!” she screamed. “Help me tear this into strips!” The two woodchucks ripped the silver fabric into long pieces as fast as possible, and she scrambled up the tunnel gripping as many as her tiny arms could hold. 

She paused at top of the hole. Outside there was terror and screaming and possible disembowelment; fellow groundhogs who hated her and felt she was responsible for the carnage that was about to happen. It would be so much easier to duck back inside and hide.

She flashed back on the last eclipse and the power she had felt course through her body just before her retinas started smoking. Maybe there was just a little bit of Captain Marvel still in her.

She dashed out of the hole and threw herself on top of her writhing cousin, flipping him several times until he fell into a nearby burrow. The turkey vulture was in a dive straight for the entrails but had to pull up before it hit the ground, zooming back into the air before readying another approach. This time it was going for her.

“Tie these around your eyes!” she screamed at the other animals, tossing the foil strips in the air. “You won’t go blind!” She threw the last ones at the other woodchucks just as the vulture snatched her by the nape of her neck and lifted her in the air. Shirley seized her foot and went airborne herself. One by one, all the now blindfolded rodents grabbed onto to each other and formed a furry chain that tethered them to ground; it stretched into the sky at least fifteen woodchucks high. 

The turkey vulture gave up, as the groundhogs were all pretty chunky and probably kind of grisly. The chain plummeted to the ground, with the woodchuck hitting last with a wince-inducing smash.

She awoke to a cold compress of soothing leaves on her forehead and a crowd of doting animals trying to anticipate her every need, bringing her insects and delicious berries. It was just like the last eclipse, only this time she could see their grateful faces beaming at her. She was their hero, but now she deserved it. She would be as humble as long she possibly could, or at least until they stopped waiting on her.

She picked up a fresh cicada someone offered her and bit into it, the crunchy filling delighting her senses. There were two or three on the bark platter, and she popped them into her mouth as well. Were they early this year? It seemed too soon for cicadas.

The woodchuck sighed and relaxed. Spring was here, and it was calm, and quiet. She hoped there wouldn’t be any more extraordinary natural phenomena to worry about this year.

Part Two: The Dark Side of the Moon

She wasn’t really blind, of course. A slight singeing and some minimal scarring occurred in her beady black pupils, but that faded quickly. Shirley came every day and bathed her eyes with the juice of assorted berries, which turned them blue for a while. She thought it looked striking but her cousin sniffed and said it reminded her of one of those pale-eyed husky wolves.

More surprising was the outpouring of concern among the forest creatures. A steady stream of delicious leaves and bugs were left outside her burrow so she wouldn’t exhaust herself hunting for food. Get Well Soon! messages scratched into bark were dropped into her hole and she amused herself by sorting them into a scrapbook with the sincerest words at the front. The woodchuck beamed as concerned rodents came from all over the forest to check on her. She had never felt so beloved.

One day while she was out healing in the sun, she accidentally reached out with a lighting fast reflex and caught a grasshopper. It became obvious that she wasn’t sight-impaired and no longer need help. The attention stopped. The other animals had their own checklists to accomplish before winter set in, such as bulking up for hibernation and not getting eaten by hawks.

The woodchuck was not ready to let go of the scam. There is an old saying in the forest: once a narcissus, always a narcissus (animals have far more old sayings than most humans realize). Someone had whittled a long white stick that was the perfect height to use as a cane, so she perched the wire-rimmed sunglasses the guilty marmoset had left for her on the tip of her nose and felt her way around the forest. She knew she looked regal as she worked her way around, waving and tapping, until she realized it also alerted hawks to her presence. 

The whole thing became considerably less entertaining when someone dropped a flyer down her burrow. It was a picture of the current weasel in charge in 2017, the one who liked to wear a severed fox tail on his head; he was staring up at the sun and pointing. Someone had scrawled moron across the picture. They were laughing at her.

She became reclusive and angry. The woodchuck had never been a particularly social animal but now she shunned the other creatures. She showed up late to work, bit the Mayor of Punxsutawney and lost her job as the weather groundhog. She said hateful things about the beavers, about grabbing them whenever she wanted and laughing at how she could do whatever she wanted because she was famous. She meant it ironically because her fame had become an albatross around her neck, but the beavers were still hurt by the comment. The woodchuck also wished she could get that damn bird to leave her alone. 

Even Shirley, her most faithful and loyal cousin, had had enough. “So you made a mistake,” she said, “it was an extraordinary natural phenomena and none of us were ready. The eclipse glasses hadn’t come in yet and how were we to know how stupid it was to stare?” Shirley did not add that she knew enough not to but had enough sense not to mention it.

Cancel culture was real. Humiliated, she stayed in her burrow as much as possible and spent her days watching reality television on her phone. Love is Blind was her favorite. She began grinding her teeth at night, although that proved to be a good thing because it kept her incisors from growing through the roof of her mouth.

Hibernation came as a relief, because for six blissful months she could tune out the rest of the cruel forest and simply dream about being pursued by marmots and not think about the state of the world. As time passed, the weasel with the orange fox tail on his head was inexplicably still around, and she couldn’t help but feel this was all his fault. Perhaps if she had had better guidance, she wouldn’t have stared at the stupid sun. (She also had nightmare about the Love is Blind reunion and woke up in the middle of February wondering why they hadn’t spent more time talking to Chelsea, but was eventually able to fall back asleep.)

Seven years had gone by, a very long time in the short span of a groundhog’s life. And now here she was again, unprepared, with the sky flipping the script and the weird half-moon shadows flickering over the grass. She recalled what Shirley used to say to her: “Those who cannot not remember the past are condemned to repeat it,” which was a pretty compelling statement for a groundhog. Actually, it might have been a lyric from a Carlos Santana song, but that wasn’t the point.

What mattered is that she alone had the power to take back her life—only she could change the course of her own history.

She grabbed her tiny sunglasses and turned to face the dark.

Coming soon: A Total Eclipse of the Heart

Part One: Hello Darkness, My Old Friend

The woodchuck startled awake, sitting up so quickly in her burrow that she banged her head on the dirt ceiling of her sleeping chamber. It was pitch black inside and she was disoriented and dizzy—but this wasn’t like normally waking from hibernation and waiting for your eyes to adjust; something about this felt sinister. She heard a voice whisper the darkness is coming. 

“Shirley, what did you say?” Her cousin, who had slept over during hibernation, groaned and rolled over on her side. “Go back to sleep,” she mumbled. “It’s too early to get up. It’s only April.”

Ignoring her cousin, the woodchuck poked her head out of her hole and did a slow 360 degree turn around the meadow. The sky was still black and across the horizon the light was beginning to dawn, but on the other side, the sun was setting. How could that be? She thought she heard the rumbling bass of Johnny Cash singing about going down, down, down. Something was wrong. Something was happening.

The insects had gone silent. Even the birds were still, as if it were the middle of their sleep cycle. Tiny half moon shadows danced across the grass.

She reached for the dark glasses that were usually perched on her tiny forehead, but they were not there. It made her uneasy to not have them on, because you just never knew when you were going to be caught outside with proper eye protection and . . .

“Oh my God!” she screamed. “It’s another fucking eclipse!”

Seven years earlier: August 21, 2017

The woodchuck scampered playfully toward her burrow but paused to hide behind a huge catalpa leaf, looking back coquettishly to see if the large marmot was still ­­following her. Most of her hind quarters were sticking out on either side of the leaf. Mating season was over, but you couldn’t blame a girl for flirting. 

The marmot must have lost interest, for he stood frozen, staring at the ground. Tiny half moon shadows were dancing across the dry grass and the normal chatter of the birds had ceased. The silence was eerie and the woodchuck shivered slightly, wondering what had happened to the blistering hot day that she had been sweating through just moments ago. Why was it getting darker? Hadn’t she just eaten lunch?

Her would-be suitor the marmot began running toward her, glancing in terror at the sky. He grabbed her and shouted, “Look away! Look away! It’s the Rapture!” as he dashed off and dove into a burrow.

The woodchuck had hoped that was going to be her line but apparently not. 

Suddenly, every cricket in the forest launched into a cacophony of chirping like someone had flipped on a switch. What was wrong with these stupid insects? They weren’t supposed to start that infernal noise until after dark.

Except that it was. It shouldn’t be, but it was. 

She glanced up at the sky just in time to see a black disk slip in front of the fiery sun. A golden orange ring surrounded the circle with flame-like spikes pointing in every direction. All the other creatures had vanished down holes or were hiding in trees. She thought she heard the opening notes of Also Sprach Zarathustra off in the distant forest, or maybe it was Johnny Cash? She was alone in the meadow, transfixed by the movement in the sky, suddenly wondering if she was about to become imbued with super powers by the glowing orb that had been overcome by a simple circle. What could this mean? Was she about to become Captain Marvel? 

As she stared at the black hole that had swallowed the sun, a brilliant point of light appeared on one side. She squinted a bit but was hypnotized by the sight and could not tear her eyes away as the inky sphere moved diagonally and the searing light of the sun burned away the dark orb. 

Shirley was shouting at her, something about stop staring at it! and are you a complete moron? But if she was going to become the next Marvel hero, she didn’t want to miss a moment of it. 

Suddenly the day became normal again. The heat returned and the crickets shut up, embarrassed they had been fooled by something as basic as a celestial event. Shirley dragged the woodchuck into her burrow and started screeching at her about crispy retinas, which the woodchuck thought sounded delicious until she realized what it meant. 

She spent most of that fall and hibernation hiding in her burrow, rubbing a salve of crushed fireflies and tree sap into her sore eyes that did not seem to help much but gave her an eerie glow. A tiny pair of round sunglasses were left at the opening of her burrow, a gift from the guilt-stricken marmot who had apparently confused the Rapture with an eclipse.

From that day forward, she would be known across the meadow as the Blind Woodchuck. 

Coming soon: Part Two: The Dark Side of the Moon

State of the re-Union

As the woodchuck strolled through the crackle of maroon and burnt umber on the floor of the forest, she felt a deep appreciation for the changing colors. Autumn was the second-best time of year; a prequel to her favorite season, which was hibernation. The anticipation of napping for four months filled her with joy, and the confetti of falling leaves meant it was just around the corner.

Traveling above ground was a bit reckless because of the hawk situation, but to tunnel to the meeting place would have ruined her manicure. The minks had set up a salon down by the river and had rubbed sap on her claws that made them shiny. The woodchuck did not consider herself vain (even though every other animal in the forest did), but after gazing at her graying snout in a puddle, she had decided that a little help wouldn’t be a bad idea. The clever minks had pounded chestnuts and mulberries into a juice and made her roll around in it; when the solution dried, she was delighted to find her fur was now the reddish brown of her youth. The only drawback was that bees kept following her around. The minks promised that as soon as the juice fermented, they would get drunk and pass out.

The woodchuck had felt the need for a make-over because she was on her way to a reunion with the group of groundhogs she had grown up with and was feeling a bit overwhelmed. Going to this thing had been her friend Gert’s idea, and the two of them had been giggling and gossiping about old classmates for weeks now. Gert had talked her into this and should be here right now admiring her fancy nails; but Gert had gone to sleep in her burrow a few days ago and had not woken up.

Life in the meadow could be hard; there were always weasels and feral cats waiting to rip your head off or eat your latest litter. Dying in your cozy dirt hole after you had actually lived long enough to attend a reunion seemed like a pretty good way to go, but the woodchuck did not see it that way. She was furious at her friend for dying and had decided to attend the gathering out of spite, if only to prove to the other groundhogs that she was still vibrant and young with great claws. 

When she arrived, the crowded clearing in the forest was one big, undulating furry surface. No one looked familiar—each rodent was wearing a nametag, but most of them said Woody or Chuckie so it didn’t really help identify anyone. Maybe those were their married names.

She felt invisible as made her way through the crowd. No one seemed to realize she had been the famous groundhog who predicted when spring would arrive. She had assumed she wasn’t going to remember anyone, but she hadn’t counted on them not remembering her. The conversations she politely listened to seemed to be mostly about who had mated with the most woodchucks in attendance.

There was a pile of souvenir rocks with the initials “SHS73” scratched on them. The woodchuck had a vague recollection of an incident that had occurred their final year: a bird of prey had swooped down out of the sky during a game and carried away their quarterback. This happened fairly often, which was why they were called pick-up games. 

With one voice, the entire school had started screaming “S.H.S!” (Scram, Hawk, Scram!), enough to startle the bird into dropping their star player. The 73 referred to either the number of times they shouted or the number of players who needed to talk to a counselor after the traumatic event. She couldn’t remember which one.

Surrounded by her past, the woodchuck felt old. Had she really laughed and possibly had litters with some of these groundhogs? Shouldn’t she have fond memories and hilarious stories to share? She was thinking about leaving when she noticed a list carved into the bark of a pine tree. It was the names of different classmates who had died in the past years, and there were a lot more than she had expected. The last name on the list was Gert’s.­

“You were her best friend,” a voice next to her said softly. The woodchuck swallowed hard and turned toward a young rodent who was also reading the list of dead. She was in her prime, her fur a rich, mahogany hue that owed nothing to mulberry juice. There were no bees following her. 

This teenager doesn’t have enough body fat to survive hibernation, thought the woodchuck meanly. Honestly, she had grudges older than this kid.

“You’re Phil, right? My Aunt Gert told me about you.”

The woodchuck gulped and immediately silenced all the snarky insults she had been formulating in her head.

“I was with her at the end, and she made me promise to find you. She said you were hilarious and brave and that you must tell me the story of “SHS73”. My aunt believed it was the elders’ duty to keep the young groundhogs safe, and that you were perfect for the job.”

The woodchuck didn’t particularly care for the term elder—she and Gert had argued about this before—but she couldn’t help but agree that she was the best rodent for that job. She had come to the reunion expecting nostalgia, but now she realized that her friend had a different purpose in mind. She wanted the woodchuck to teach Generation G how to survive.

She tucked her short, front paw into the crook of the young woodchuck’s arm, and as they strolled, began the final phase of her long life: she would be the wise storyteller and educator of the next generation.

“The 73 in “SHS73” refers to the number of sticks I used to single-handedly beat back the attacking hawk . . .”

She hoped Gert would be proud of her.

High school reunions are not as scary as hawk attacks, but they can both leave scars. Be careful with those talons! 

And To Think That I Wanted a Mulberry Tree!

(with apologies to Dr. Seuss)

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 enjoy being hijacked by some wannabe poet, and would like to emphasize that she quite enjoys mulberries; especially the ones that are so ripe that they explode when they hit the ground! The juice has a wide spatter range that attracts bees, and the bees give it an extra crunch when you pop it in your mouth. Yum!

tick . . . tick . . . BOOM!

The woodchuck shifted uncomfortably in her burrow. It was usually snug and cozy in there, but lately she had been scratching herself obsessively. She had made peace with the various parasites that roamed freely through her fur—she was, after all, just one cog in the great forest ecosystem where the circle of life was often represented by uncontrollable itching—but something about this invasive feeling was more draining than usual.

She cursed her lack of neck as she craned her head around as far as she could, but still could not see her hindquarters. With no reflective surfaces in the burrow, it was impossible to get a glimpse of what was going on back there. She’d once had a tiny compact with a mirror in it, but it had been accidentally left outside and smashed to bits when a raven pecked itself to death in a fight with another bird who looked exactly like him.

She knew she was going to need another set of beady eyes to help out here, so reluctantly, she texted Shirley. Her cousin was the biggest gossip in the meadow and would no doubt share this with everyone she met, but the itching was driving her crazy.

When Shirley arrived, she was already talking non-stop about a variety of subjects that held no interest to the woodchuck, such as drought and fires and climate change. She interrupted her cousin with a scolding hush, and explained the weird creepy crawly feeling she had on her haunches. Shirley sighed, for she knew her cousin was the most narcissistic groundhog in the field. “Turn over,” she ordered, and started searching through her fur.

“Holy Vampire Weekend,” Shirley murmured under her breath. “Well, honey, I hate to tell you this, but you are the host of some uninvited party guests. There are about a dozen ticks snacking on your backside.”

The woodchuck’s mouth opened in a silent scream. For a creature who lived in a dirt hole under a meadow next to a forest filled with deer, she had an unreasonable fear of ticks. 

“Getthemoffame! Getthemoffame! Getthemoffame!” she shrieked, twirling and squirming in a frenzied dance of revulsion. 

“Now, calm down, girlfriend,” Shirley soothed. “Eventually they will drink their fill of your blood and let go. Why don’t you just let them have their fun and leave them alone?”

“Shut your damn mouth and take these tweezers,” the woodchuck muttered between gritted teeth.

“How am I supposed to use tweezers to remove a tick when I don’t have opposable thumbs?” 

Moments later, after the woodchuck had duct taped the tweezers to Shirley’s paw, a snarling tick was slowly eased out of her haunch. Shirley popped the gnarly insect into her mouth and bit it in half with a loud crunch.

“Oh my God, you’re eating them,” moaned the woodchuck.

“They’re very satisfying; they explode with a pop!” chuckled Shirley. “It’s like an amuse bush before dinner—you know, one of those little appetizers that has sticks and twigs in them? Only this one has ticks and twigs!” She collapsed into giggles, slapping her leg; Shirley thought Shirley was the funniest groundhog in the forest.

After the final insect had been removed, the woodchuck lay on the floor of the burrow, weak with blood loss and terror. “Ok, honey, you’re done. You can stop moaning now.” 

Shirley took one more quick look at ­­the rash on her prone cousin’s now tick-free backside and murmured, “That reminds me, I have to go to Target later.”­

Just because the author of The Blind Woodchuck occasionally writes about real-life scenarios in no way means that she came home from a camping trip with an actual tick in her ass. Stay out of the woods—nature is terrible!