My fellow TCC members. Most of you have gotten used to the fact that some, if not most of our stories, are a bit on the odd side. When I say most, I mean all and let’s be real, all of you possess an uncommonly high degree of common sense elsewise you wouldn’t be here.
But for the time being, let’s all lay aside our Heavenly bestowed overabundance of smartitude and talk about one of the more mundane and somewhat boring of God’s creatures. The lowly Whistle Pig (Groundhog for the uninitiated).
Firstly, they fry up rather nicely and taste a lot like squirrel, which tastes a lot like rabbit, which in turn tastes a lot like chicken, which in turn tastes a lot like…(vicious circle best saved for another story).
Aside from their crispy goodness, I have never stopped to consider their uncommon knack for problem-solving, comradery, and common sense. That was until just a few short years ago when I purchased an old farmhouse, complete with its very own (well-established) Whistle Pig community.
They were cute enough to begin with; mornings were spent with a hot cup of coffee while I watched their comings and goings. My neighbor joined in on my little nature watch, sitting on his rear deck watching the wonder of life unfold before our eyes. I soon discovered each critter possessed a unique personality and character, and soon the leader became evident. All was good at the old farmhouse until that fateful day, a friend came to visit.
He listen patiently as I shared the details of my Whistle Pig neighbors until, at last, he was able to fit a word in edgewise.
You do realize those things will destroy your house, don’t you?
What? I couldn’t believe my ears.
He went on and on, filling me with terror as he shared tales of my foundation sinking, my neatly kept lawn full of holes. By the time he was finished, I was certain those cursed rodents had to go.
Que the “Caddy Shack” theme song.
I now had a mission, a Holy calling, so to speak. I was gonna rid my property (and save my house) of those evil varmints.
I began humanely, of course; I procured a few live traps from I don’t remember who, and placed them near the entrances to their burrows. Once set, I gave myself a well-deserved pat on the back, secure in the knowledge I was doing the proper thing in sparing their tiny lives.
That didn’t work; as a matter of fact, I’m sure they were sitting down there in their little hole in the ground, snickering and laughing at my expense. I was certain my neighbor was doing the same.
As I told the boys at the local hardware store of my plight, I was inundated with countless homespun, surefire methods to rid myself of my ne’er-do-well squatters.
Mothballs works every time; trust me, they said, that’ll get ’em. Mothballs it was handfuls of ’em, under the house, around the house, down the holes. I even went as far as to open a box and place it next to their front door (hole). I then warned that neighbor of mine, get ready, I said, they’re coming to live with you in just a couple of days.
Did it work? NO.
The little jerks even stole the box I had set down; to this day, I have no idea where that daing box went. Once again, they sat there in that little hole of theirs, laughing at me; I was certain of it. The daddy groundhog went as far as to parade back and forth in my backyard, rubbing my face in my failure.
The rage began to boil inside me: ” If his chest had been a cannon, he would have shot his heart upon it.” Sorry, borrowed a bit from Moby Dick there.
Leg traps, yea, that’s it, brutal, yes, but I was losing myself in my rage. Leg traps it was.
I retrieved some old fox traps from a friend’s barn; I chuckled to myself maniacally as I cleaned and oiled the medieval things. It was pouring rain, but that didn’t stop me; I cursed them each one as I set the gruesome traps. Some errands needed running, and I smiled as I drove into town confident my problem was near an end. Did it work?
As I pulled into the drive, the rain was heavy, but it didn’t phase me. I leaped from my truck, making a bee-line to the traps. In the pouring rain and darkness, I saw a lone figure lying in the grass; I had him. My heart raced as I closed in, only to crash in utter defeat; a rather pitiful old Tom-cat stared back at me. What had I done?
With tears in my eyes and a heavy heart, I removed the cat’s leg from the horrible trap and lovingly carried him to the porch. I gently dried his fur with a bath towel and doctored his bruised paw. The old cat gazed into my eyes, and I felt the love, we were having a moment that cat and I, then suddenly, THWACK.
With a soul-curdling howl, a left hook landed hard on my cheek, and the claws dug in, almost instantaneously followed by a right hook. His rear feet dug into my chest as he catapulted into the yard and disappeared into the dark, leaving me battered and bleeding on the porch.
I slunk into the house and collapsed into a chair like a wad of chewed gum, completely defeated, and certain my house was doomed to a groundhog burrow. (Exit stage left)
The rain was over and the sun was bright come morning; I watched through the kitchen window as my neighbor took his usual spot with his usual coffee. I had accepted my fate, the birds were singing, and all was right with the world, But there he was.
The daddy Whistle Pig simply stood there with his back turned to me, the rodent equivalent of giving me the finger. The rage exploded within my heart; I grabbed the closest thing, (a large knife) and bolted through the house, nearly knocking the front door from its hinges. Around the house I ran, coming to a stop at the corner.
His back was still turned as I crept towards the beast. Why had he not turned? Surely he knows I’m here. My neighbor stood in his housecoat, noticing the drama playing out before him. My skin tingled, my ears screamed. Why had he not turned around?
At ten paces, my shaking hand lifted the knife above my head, ” from Hell’s heart I stab at thee, for hate’s sake I spit my last breath at thee” ( Melville again, but it works). Then it happened, he turned, and with a scream lunged at his pitiful human attacker, (Melville ringing in his head as well).
I sidestepped his advance, and we both ran for the house; I knew where he was going and screamed as I chased him, knife held high above my head. We rounded the corner, his hole was in sight, but I was losing the race. I noticed another groundhog poke his head from the burrow, empowering his nestmate. I dove at the rodent in a final lunge just as he ducked into the hole; he was gone.
I lay prostrate in the wet grass, complete in my defeat. I lay there until I heard a faint sound, a clapping. I lifted my head to see my neighbor, my former friend, clapping his hands and smiling from ear to ear. He stopped and lifted his coffee cup, I was not certain if the toast was for me, or my opponent, either way, message received.
Sometime later, I sold that house, complete with its Whistle Pig community. I drive by every now and then; it’s still standing. I can’t help but wonder if they are still there. I’ve never had another groundhog issue, but my new house does have some noisy dogs next door; I don’t mess with ’em. Instead, I’ve read Melville a few times, ol’ Ahab and I got a lot in common.
Dear reader, most of this story is fact; some of it, well, maybe I added a little spice. I’m gonna leave it up to you to discern what parts have been sprinkled a bit. In the end, I don’t think it matters much; the lesson is the same (if there is a lesson). I sometimes think that, without our knowledge, we become our own Ahab, and in the heat of the moment, it can be very difficult to see who we have become.
But…that’s just my opinion; feel free to make it your own.
As always, we thank you for spending a bit of your precious time with us and are honored with the sacrifice. Please hit the like button and share with at least one person if you liked it. Comments, well, let us know we are doing just a bit of good. God Bless you
The Tin Cup Clan 