Budgie’s Journal #130 – I Hate Groundhogs
Let me start by taking you back to a day that’s not February second.
It’s a beautiful early-summer Saturday, and my four-year-old daughter wants nothing more than to play outside in our big backyard, but we can’t. Groundhogs moved in under an old wooden porch built around a tree and had ugly-ass groundhog babies. Then more moved in. We watch from inside the house and count fourteen of them, glomming on my grass and clover.
Fourteen of the horrid fuckers.
That was five years ago, and it wasn’t my first or last tango with the fat rodent bastards. At one point they took up residence around my sun room, an addition to my house on the back. The undermined it, building a series of tunnels. They even burrowed along the side of the concrete steps.
These fuckers are territorial as hell, and they’ll come back to the same spots over and over, digging and clawing. I had to harass them until they left, yelling at them, throwing rocks at them, letting my dog chase them, spraying them with the hose. Only then was a able to dig a trench of my own around my sun room, install a metal fence underground, fill it with rocks, and bury it.
And the jerks still come back and try to dig the same holes, every friggin’ year!
So I don’t revel in their holiday, this “Groundhog Day”. To me it’s a reminder that my enemy is still out there, hiding in one of my neighbors’ yards, waiting, plotting against me.
One day, I hope this holliday serves as a remembrance of when groundhogs went extinct. On that day, I’ll crack open a beer and toast the world, better off without the groundhog.
Until then, fuck that oversized, weather-predicting rat bastard and all groundhogs, and, most of all, fuck February second.