So far I’ve had to contend with deer and moles attacking the garden, not to mention a variety of ravenous insects. Now the garden is being stalked by a groundhog. I’m beginning to feel that the circle of life that Walt Disney made a central theme of the movie “The Lion King” is really a maneuver by nature to get behind my back and bite me on the ass.
If you’re not already aware, a groundhog looks like a small beaver without a flat tail. Up north they’re called woodchucks. According to Wikipedia, they’re also called whistlepigs in some places. They’re plentiful in North Georgia, and I see them all the time as I drive around Fannin County.
To use a phrase that we seem to be hearing a lot these days, a groundhog is an existential threat to a garden. (There has been debate in the news media lately about whether ISIS is an “existential” threat to this country. When I first heard the term I had no idea what it meant. The first thing that flashed in my mind was that the United States was under attack from Islamic terrorists quoting Kierkegaard and Sartre. How dangerous can that be? To my knowledge, no one has ever been killed by a philosophy bomb. Then I did some research and learned that an existential threat is a threat to something’s survival.)
I’ve seen the damage that a groundhog can do. The Feed Fannin group that I belong to has a large garden where it grows vegetables to donate to the local food pantry. Just one groundhog wiped out the garden’s entire crop of cabbage in a matter of a few weeks this summer. The way I see it, that the groundhog took food from the mouths of hungry families with babies and small children. Think about that the next time you see a PETA commercial or feel a twinge of sympathy for a furry woodland creature. In fact, that’s going to be my rallying cry in the battle with Mr. Groundhog: Remember the Cabbages! It doesn’t quite have the same ring as Remember the Maine or Remember the Alamo but it’s the best I can do on short notice.
I am not a live and let live type of guy, and I’m not about to let a groundhog get at my garden. It’s time to circle the wagons, man the barricades, fight the good fight, put on my big boy pants and all other clichés that slip my mind right now.
I spent two days last week zeroing in my .22 rifles and stashing them at convenient locations in the cabin so I can grab them when Mr. Groundhog is spotted. Some of you may think it’s a little odd having a rifle leaning beside every exterior door to my house, but it’s not like we have a lot of next door neighbors dropping by unexpectedly to borrow a cup of sugar. Besides, I kind of like the look. I thinking of calling it Early American Survivalist or maybe Ruby Ridge Revival. And there’s nothing like the smell of Hoppe’s No. 9 as you’re drinking your morning coffee.
I’ll say this for Mr. Groundhog—he’s not like a lousy mole that burrows underground. Mr. Groundhog stays above ground. He sneaks from the wood line at dawn and dusk and crawls through the field towards the garden. He’s crafty and alert and scurries back to the protection of the woods if he detects danger or unusual movement. It will not be easy to take him out. I figure that makes it a fair fight, mano y mano, or maybe that should be mano y varmito.
Not that I believe in fighting fair. To paraphrase Barry Goldwater, extremism in defense of vegetables is no vice. I’ve cleared fields of fire by mowing the grass in the field surrounding my garden to deprive the groundhog of cover if he tries to sneak into the garden. If they were available to the general public I’d be tempted to buy trip mines and Predator drones.
Meredith or I are on heightened alert. We have gotten in the habit of getting up and looking out the front and side windows every few minutes hoping to spot the groundhog creeping towards the garden. To be honest, the constant up and down and peering out the windows is getting to be a pain in the ass. We look like a family of meerkats with all that bobbing up and down, and our little dog is starting to get paranoid that there might be something dangerous outside.
The way things have gone this summer makes me wonder what nature will throw at me next. A hoard of rabbits or a plague of locusts can’t be too far off. Hell, at this point I wouldn’t be surprised if a herd of buffalo came over the hill. But I’m not going to complain too loudly. I moved here for that authentic rural experience, and I’d say that I’m getting it.
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