wildlife – theblindwoodchuck.com

We Are All Florida Now

She glided through the turquoise water as if born with gills, her sleek fins covered in green and gold paillettes that reflected the admiration of the fish who watched her swim. What had once been a furry haunch was now a tail meant for speed; it whipped back and forth and pushed her through the water as silent and deadly as a barracuda. Her top half was encased in two scalloped shells tied together to create a fetching bra, and while she wasn’t exactly Ariel, she could certainly pass as a mermaid at Weeki Watchee Springs*.

She was wrenched from her sea fantasy by the realization that she couldn’t actually breathe underwater and sat up in her burrow, gasping. Her cousin Shirley was standing over her, having just thrown a cup of water in her face. “What the hell did you do that for?” screamed the woodchuck, realizing that her sequined mermaid tail now ended in two dirty paws.

“You were choking in your sleep and I had to wake you up,” pointed out Shirley. “I saved your life! You really should use that CPAP machine.”

“It’s so cold,” the woodchuck whined, now damp and shivering. “I should be deep in hibernation, but my anxiety keeps waking me up. I want to be somewhere warm!’

“Maybe we should move south,” mused Shirley, as she trod on a frozen lump. “Damn, what did I step on?”

“Be careful, that’s Steve. Look, you broke off his tail! Steve! Wake up!”

A mess of iguanas had wandered into the meadow at the end of the summer, tired of politics and fearful of immigration rumors. Originally from Mexico, they had lived in Florida for hundreds of years but that didn’t seem to stop anyone from trying to deport them. They loved the intense heat of the midwestern sun in their new home and could frequently be found sunning themselves on rocks.

The woodchuck adored the iguanas. She thought they were alligators when they first arrived, but soon discovered they were herbivores and not interested in eating her. They were big card players, and the woodchuck had spent many happy hours winning all their insects and leaves. Her favorite part was when they tried to bluff and did not seem to realize their tell was when they turned bright blue. Shirley insisted that wasn’t possible because they were iguanas, not chameleons, but the pile of dried cicadas the woodchuck had won disproved that theory.

Unfortunately, the lizards had not realized what the geographical difference in the climate would eventually bring. The frozen bodies of iguanas were strewn about the floor of the burrow as the temperatures dropped and so did they.

“Don’t worry, they’re not dead, just a little stiff,” the woodchuck reassured her cousin. “Why are you in here?”

“I think we should have a party! Let’s celebrate Groundhog Day and the fact that you don’t have to go to Punxsutawney now because you’re retired!”

The woodchuck could think of several reasons why she hated this idea, but apparently Shirley had already invited everyone in the meadow and animals began pouring into her burrow. As the tunnels filled with the hot breath of furry rodents, the temperature climbed and the iguanas stirred. The dancing started when one of her cousins dragged an old boombox he had found at the dump into the burrow, and the CD stuck inside blasted out the opening brass of the Miami Sound machine. “Come on, shake your body baby do the conga!” they screamed along with Gloria. An otter was keeping the beat on the shell of a turtle that had wandered in as the skunks and raccoons serpentined in and out of the tunnels in a conga line. The song stopped abruptly at “let your body feel the . . .” and then started over, a continuous loop of never-ending bongos. The party raged on, as the opossums shared some fun mushrooms they had found and the rats kept holding up the beaver’s tails to look like they had Micky Mouse ears. The iguanas shouted “ratoncito mickey!” and the revelers erupted in cheers.

The woodchuck watched, not sure if she could summon the energy to join in with this manic crowd. Outside a dumpster fire raged that would soon spread to the meadow, scorching the dry grasses and causing the trees to erupt into tikki torches. A Musky odor seemed to float over the fields like a warning and the air felt charged, as if a hurricane was forming in the Gulf of Meximerica or whatever the weasel was calling it now. The world was terrifying; was it really a good idea to dance and party in denial?

On the plus side, the iguanas had thawed out and Steve’s tail was already growing back. Maybe she could find a few moments of joy with this sweaty, hallucinating group of freaks. A squirrel wearing a French maid outfit passed by with a tray of psilocybin canapés, and the woodchuck popped one in her mouth.

“Ratoncito mickey!” she giggled and merged into the congo line.

• • • • •

*I have no plans to visit Florida soon, as I hate humidity and get sick on roller coasters. Also it feels like I will never sleep again as I keep waking up in despair,
but one day I would love to see the mermaids of https://weekiwachee.com/park-attractions/.

As long as I don’t have to go to Florida to see them.

A Holly, Jolly Pranksgiving

Twinkling lights were strung from end to end of the burrow, creating an electric grid effect that caused the woodland animals to shriek with joy as they jumped over and climbed through the strings of tiny lasers. In one area, there was a piney-fragrant fur tree that a friendly beaver had gnawed down and then dropped into the tunnel, laughing about how it was “going to be a lot harder to get it out than in!” The sweet voices of young rodents rang out as they joined in perfect harmony to warble A Holly Jolly Christmas for the twenty-ninth time.

The woodchuck woke up screaming, her paws clutched to either side of her face like a furry Macauley Culkin. The burrow was dark and silent. The burned-out Christmas lights she had thrown over some twigs had fallen and become a hazard; she tripped over them every single time she got up to pee.

It had been a nightmare, one so real that the chant of “Hey, Ho, the mistletoe!” ricocheted around her sleep-deprived head and cause her to paw frantically at her ear to get it to stop.

The woodchuck had been in a bad mood for most of her existence, but the past six weeks had been particularly terrible. With the election of the Weasel and the non-election of the Muskrat who seemed to be in charge, every day brought new angst and fear about what they were planning for the forest. Merry, she was not.

She put a paw out to feel her way to the bathroom, when it suddenly sank into the hairy belly of a zombie who screeched in her face, “I AM THE GHOST OF CHRISTMAS PAST!” The woodchuck dropped to her knees in terror, something warm and wet running down her haunch, when the booming voice of her cousin Shirley started laughing hysterically. “I got you!,” she shrieked. “You peed on yourself! Hahahhahaha!”

Shirley had been trying to get the nickname Prankenstein trending around the forest since she had started jumping out at others, but it hadn’t stuck. The squirrels had suggested Prank Zappa, which caused them to giggle hysterically and choke on their nuts. There was one duckbilled platypus who kept pushing for Pranklin Shepherd, Inc. but there weren’t enough Sondheim fans around to appreciate it.

“I hate it when you jump out at me!” sobbed the woodchuck, sitting in the spreading puddle of hibernation pee. “You scared me; you never knock before you sneak in, and you are not funny. Your stupid nickname should be Prank Lloyd Wrong!”

Shirley was immediately contrite and apologized profusely; she then climbed out of the burrow to get some vegetation to sop up the moisture. She was gone for so long that the woodchuck assumed she had pranked off to scare the Dickens out of other animals. She was grateful to be alone again, but still churning with anger at her cousin and all the other animals she felt had wronged her that year. Spreading her Walmart bag quilt over the wet spot, she was about to settle back to sleep when a long stick was suddenly shoved down into her burrow. It was followed by Shirley and the beavers and several other animals, including the weird platypus.

“I’m so sorry,” yelled Shirley, who never seemed to say anything at a normal volume. “I know you’re mad at me, so I brought you a Festivus pole! You can Air Your Grievances at all of us, because nothing makes you happier than complaining.”

The woodchuck tried to find something wrong with that statement, but nothing came to mind. Her cousin knew her well. “I got a lot of problems with you animals . . .” she started.

For twenty glorious minutes, she ranted about the beavers chewing with their mouths open. She shouted at the platypus, “Are you a duck? Are you a beaver? Make up your mind!”

She pointed at Shirley. “And you . . . your jokes are not funny. Stop punking me. You are not Prank Costanza!” She paused for a breath and to appreciate how good her pun had been. She felt lighter than she had in weeks.

Taking advantage of the momentary pause, the crowd cheered and hurriedly moved on; seeing the woodchuck in a good mood was a Festivus miracle. They shared a delicious meal of berries and freeze-dried cicadas, with the squirrels chipping in some pre-chewed acorns. They were happy the rant was over before the woodchuck had got to them.

After too much eating and celebrating, it was time for the Feats of Strengths. The woodchuck and her cousin and all the beavers and squirrels participated, but the duckbilled platypus smoked everyone. Whatever combo it was, it was really strong.

At the end of the evening, the woodchuck waved goodnight to everyone and settled back in her cozy burrow, full of yummy food and the glow of being with good, if flawed, friends. It was time for a nice long sleep, and hopefully when she woke up in the spring, the weasel and the muskrat would have eaten each other and no one would be singing A Holly Jolly Christmas. God, she hated that song.

I hope your holidays are lovely and contain as much complaining as is necessary to get you through the coming weeks. It’s going to be a long, dark winter and we are all going to have to share our nuts to stay sane. Whether you are celebrating Festivus or bringing Prankincense to a manger, I hope it is as warm and cozy as a Walmart bag full of duck feathers!

Reality Bites

The woodchuck sat terrified in her burrow. Only her snout and beady black eyes were visible as she sank deeper into the plastic bag stuffed with random bird feathers that was the warmest thing she owned. Outside, above her, a fire raged. It was fueled, not by flames, but by anger and hate and animals who seemed to be voting against their own interests; she’d heard all the chickens had bonded together to elect the weasel. Why you would vote for the beast that regularly took out entire coops was beyond her, but one of them had told her “they just didn’t know what the weasel’s opponent stood for.”

The woodchuck did not engage with fowl because she knew you can’t change people’s mind by arguing with them, although it never stopped her cousin from trying. Shirley was on her way over to the woodchuck’s burrow, her own plastic bag packed with essentials. She had a plan; they would cross the border to the next meadow to escape whatever terrible things the weasel had in mind for their own beloved field.

The woodchuck knew people saw her as a narcissistic cynic; always looking out for herself and not concerned for the other animals. But they didn’t know about her concealed vein of naivete and optimism. She had never really believed the weasel would come back to their meadow because she couldn’t fathom that the other animals would vote against themselves. Sure, everything cost more since the big sick had locked down the meadow, but wasn’t that the fault of the big corporations? What did they think the weasel was actually going to do about that, since he planned on trying to repeal minimum wage and get the eagles to take out all his enemies?

Shirley ducked into the burrow, dragging two huge bags of sticks behind her. “What are you bringing?” snapped the woodchuck. “I thought we were traveling light.”

“I needed all my favorite sticks to remember this place by,” Shirley said in a quivering voice. “I love this meadow.” Tears ran down her snout and she was suddenly sobbing as hard as Hannah had on Love is Blind when Leo broke up with her.

The woodchuck was not an affectionate animal, but watching her cousin cry broke something in her. She wrapped her tiny arms around her bulky best friend in a hug as big as she could give, and the two of them stood there for a long time.

“Shirley,” she said softly. “We can’t leave.” Shirley was still sobbing hysterically, and the gentler side that the woodchuck never showed ran out of patience. “SHIRLEY!” she shouted, slapping her relative across the snout. “I know you’re sad and scared and anxious —so am I. But we can’t leave. We are the elders in the meadow here and we have to stay and show them we will not be cowed. We have to keep fighting for all the things we believe in and letting them know just because we lost, we will not bend to their will. We will not vanish without a fight. We’re going to live on. We’re going to survive.”

She wasn’t exactly sure how they were going to do any of that and she realized that some of that pep talk might have been stolen from the president’s speech in Independence Day, but it did the trick. Shirley took a deep breath and the tears slowed.

“My God,” she whispered. “I can’t believe I’m saying this but you’re right. We have to stay and let the other animals know we can still all band together and keep trying.” She hugged her cousin and said she was going home to put all her sticks back where they belonged.

After she left, the woodchuck stood in silence in her burrow. She wasn’t sure she really believed all that stuff she had just said to Shirley, but at least her cousin had stopped crying. That was something, right? Taking care of each other.

She had found an old string of twinkle lights at the dump, and they worked fine after she replaced the fuse. She strung them from twigs across her burrow, and it made a comforting glow in the cozy tunnel. Today she would rest, and nap; maybe even break into that stash of Snickers bars she had been hoarding since Halloween. She thought about postponing hibernation but changed her mind; after a long sleep through the winter, she would wake refreshed in the spring and ready to do something. She wasn’t sure what that might be, but it would sure be something.

There was only one good thing about all this being over—at least she wouldn’t be getting any more emails and texts from the Democrats wanting more money.

As a form of self-care, I am putting up my Christmas decorations early. They make me happy, and I could sure use some happy right now.

Present: Tense

The anxiety was unbearable, like when hundreds of bees had burrowed into her fur and were all screaming at her at once because she ate their queen. (She didn’t mean to eat their ruler; it was just that all bees looked alike.) Every moment felt like hours, and the cacophony of who said what felt like it was at full volume. The rabbits in the meadow kept chanting, “they’re eating the dogs, they’re eating the cats” like it was a hilarious joke, not realizing that they could be next in the food chain. It felt like everyone had lost their damn minds.

Her cousin Shirley dropped by unexpectedly to recruit her to be a poll watcher. The woodchuck assumed that meant the polecats were going to be putting on another show, but watching those skinny little freaks dance made her feel bad about her thighs and she had enough things to worry about.

When was this madness going to be over? The animals in the forest were constantly going on about who they thought should run the woods, and every species seem to have a different idea of who was the scariest. Anxious chatter filled the skies from the bluebirds and the redbirds seemed to be completely divorced from reality, and now the muskrat was offering to pay people to vote for the weasel. The woodchuck felt that was extremely unfair, because no one on her side of the meadow was doing anything like that and she could use some extra cash. She didn’t really know what she would do with money, but she did love to win things. Also, how was that not illegal? She hoped the meerkat named Garland was looking into this.

She needed to distract herself, because if she saw one more clip of that weasel dancing to YMCA, she was going to gnaw off the paw holding her phone.

She tried watching Netflix, but the thing kept buffering and freezing. Reception in her burrow was never great, and it could always be counted on to go out just when you finally managed to lose yourself in the latest episode of Love is Blind, where the people were all terrible and no one talked about Arnold Palmer’s dick. She lay on her back in the dark, watching that little circle go endlessly around and around but never quite completing itself, not unlike this election cycle. She tried not to think about the reports that the polls were tightening, because she knew that had nothing to do with the stripping ferrets, or the fact that Pennsylvania —home of Punxsutawney, where she had faithfully predicted the weather for all those Groundhog Days!—might let her down.

Her head was going to explode if she kept thinking about this. How was she going to get through the next fourteen days? What she needed was a sure-fire distraction, a completely reliable streaming service that worked in a dark burrow and would provide enough mind numbing content to refocus her brain and force her amygdala to process only big-lipped housewives, badly-behaved yacht crews, and whatever Alan Cummings was wearing.

The woodchuck sat up, suddenly clearheaded. This was a great idea! Finally, a project that would focus her mind and keep her from endless checking her phone for updates on whether the former leader Bushy the Squirrel had endorsed someone. The woodchuck started sketching a logo for this new app and realized she should immediately apply for a patent before someone else could grab her concept. She would call it — TunnelVision!

Unfortunately, when the woodchuck applied for the trademark, she discovered that someone else had already patented the idea. It was called Bravo TV.

It was going to be a long two weeks.

Fourteen days to go. If anxiety and nerves could power vehicles, we would never again need to drill, baby, drill.

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 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

Piece on Earth, Good Will Toward . . .

At the time, going to the wedding seemed like a good idea—the woodchuck had needed some cheering up. She should have been deep into hibernation by now, but lately the state of the forest had made her anxious and depressed and she found herself wide awake and staring into the darkness of mid-December.

When the huge gold leaf had swirled into her burrow, she’d been impressed. The calligraphy scratched across the surface announced the marriage of her cousins Chip and Dale—to each other. She wasn’t sure how she felt about this. It was common knowledge that all her cousins mated with each other because really, how were you supposed to know if they were related to you or not? But actually getting married felt a little extreme. This must have been Chip’s idea—he had always pushed the envelope a bit more than the others.

An overheard conversation where a park ranger had mentioned traveling to her destination and a spur of the moment decision had led to her now being trapped in a leather satchel in an overhead bin. An announcement about landing jarred her awake, and she began chewing her way out of the carry-on, wondering why it smelled like cows and hoping it wasn’t anyone she knew.

Escaping the bag had been easy, but now she was locked in the compartment. There was a small space in the back, and she barely squeezed her furry butt through the hole. This extra hibernation weight was going to be a bitch to get off in the spring. The woodchuck poked her head out of the last bin and came face to snout with a human wearing a red scarf tied jauntily around her neck. A shriek filled the plane; and while the woodchuck wasn’t familiar with the finer points of flying, even she knew that this much noise from the flight attendant —now trying to stand on a drink cart—was going to send the rest of the seated passengers into a frenzy. She leaped to the floor and ran full speed up the aisle, the shouts of “Rat! Rat! It’s a rat!” taunting her. A panicked stew hit the emergency exit and a long yellow slide suddenly inflated in front of her. Not being a fan of playground equipment, she added her own screams to the chaos as she slid down backwards on her belly, her sharp toenails carving ragged slits in the rubber tube. By the time she reached the bottom, the limp yellow plastic was waving in the wind as she scampered away across the tarmac, gasping and shaking. She’d always been a nervous flyer.

The woodchuck found a nearby burrow and plunged into the darkness. She paused to compose herself, and as she took deep breaths, she thought about how the plane people had reacted when they assumed she was a rat. It was a ridiculous mistake—she didn’t even have a tail!—but their terror had been palpable. It had felt powerful to command such fear. At home when humans saw her on the golf course near her meadow, they usually started singing that dumb Kenny Loggins song. God, she hated Caddyshack.

The tunnel she was in lit up with headlights coming from both directions and a cacophony of enraged honking. This was not like the burrows she was used to. She serpentined between the metal beasts trying to avoid their wheels but the lights were so terrifying that she froze. She watched helplessly as Death by SUV approached, when suddenly hundreds of tiny paws reached up through a metal grate behind her and pushed it aside. They grabbed chunks of the fur on her haunches and pulled her through the hole into a freefall, where she landed in freezing water that had more than just a whiff of a sewage to it. As she tried to shake the sludge from her ears, she became aware of thousands of yellow eyes staring up at her. Terrified, she turned to flee, when all the watching rats began bowing and stroking her fur.

“Oh, wondrous giant being, you have dropped from the dreaded Tunnel of Abe to lead our people in your ways of survival and lunch. We salute your girth and beg you to teach us how to become as large and powerful as you are.”

The woodchuck was annoyed at the crack about her weight—it was hibernation, damn it!—but if thousands were offering to worship her, who was she to argue?

“Um, teeming crowds of rodents who smell of typhoid and filth, you have earned my undying gratitude! I am only in your fair sewer for a short time, so you must choose a leader who knows the path of these tunnels and can lead your millions to less smelly living quarters.”

The rats seemed moved by her modest suggestion that there were others more qualified to lead than she, so she added, “I seek a great tree, hundreds of feet in the sky and surrounded by a ring of ice, to attend the wedding of my cousin.”

Moving in unison as if they were a swirling swarm of garbage, the mischief of rats began to lead her through the subway system. They paused for a moment to consult Google maps, and then scampered up the steps at 47^th Street. The woodchuck was once again amazed by the humans who ran screaming in all directions as the horde burst out of the subway opening. They came upon an open plaza and then abruptly stopped, their millions of amber eyes wide with awe. A magnificent tree soared into the clouds and was lit up and sparkling against the darkening sky. How her cousin had been able to pull this off was beyond her ken, but Chip sure knew how to throw a party.

“Here is your destination, O Great Woodchuck! And to prove our admiration for your style and substance, we got you a date!”

The swarm parted to make a path, and each rodent watched in admiration as a muscular rat dragging an enormous slice of pizza approached the woodchuck. He winked at her and nodded at the piece of pie; she blushed and then grabbed the other side. The two of them headed toward the ceremony, each of them wondering what the night might bring, as it began to softly snow. It was, after all, Christmas in New York.

Christine Broquet loves it when all the rats of New York and Chicago can come together to wish each other a happy holiday and a wonderful start to a new year!
God bless them, every one—or rather, six million.