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.
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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!
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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.
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!
theblindwoodchuck.com 