Groundhog Day…and Night

I live with my partner Jim on six(ish) acres twenty miles south of Punxsutawney. (Yes, that Punxs…I’m not spelling it out again.)

We have a variety of trees, including chestnut, cherry, and a large maple Jim calls Big Tapper. A couple of creeks converge on the property line, and our neighbor’s pond is visible from our deck.

All kinds of birds visit the feeders, including turkeys, and once a male and female mallard waddled over for dinner.

Female deer use the property as a Motel 6. Last week, we saw a gray fox run through our yard (a first for me), and the sound of coyotes howling in the middle of the night makes my blood run cold.

The most prolific species on the property are garden variety squirrels, rabbits, black bears (not my personal favorite), and moles and chipmunks, which are Zuzu the Wonder Dog’s personal favorites to chase, although she is without prejudice as we learned last night.

Jim and I were sitting on the deck, enjoying take-out sushi, when Zu took off after something. I didn’t see what it was right away, but when I did, I learned two things: 1) groundhogs are faster than I realized, and 2) they can climb trees, although I’m not sure that particular groundhog knew that it possessed tree-climbing skills until that very moment since it spent the next ten hours in the V of the tree.

I can’t imagine how frightened it might have been. Did it have babies? A mate that needed it? Was it hungry? Did it think it might die there?

Wait, that last one doesn’t fit. Animals aren’t aware of death. They only understand survival.

As a being with a pre-frontal cortex, I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not.

Anyway, after a few hours, the groundhog laid down between the large branches. The sun went down and Jim went out to check if it still there. It was, and he said if it was still there when he got up for work, “we” would get it down.

We?

“I’ll rig a snare like I did the last time.”

Dear readers, the “last time” did not involve a precarious groundhog. Oh no no no. “Last time” was the rabid racoon who’d made its way into our basement. (Please don’t ask for details.)

Jim woke up at 3 a.m. and so did I because we both were wondering about our little friend in the tree; there only because of our other furry friend—who thinks she’s princess of the property—chased it up there.

The groundhog was still there, prostrate, and no doubt contemplating its fate.

Jim said, “It’ll take me a little while to get the snare made, but…”

And that’s when he explained the “we” part of the rescue.

He cautioned me about things that could happen: thrashing, resistance, and screaming (I think he was still talking about the groundhog?).

“So what do you need me to do?” I asked

His instructions were simple: hold the flashlight.

With Marlin Perkins’ determination, Jim walked to the garage, in the dark, to rig the thingamajig that would save our stuck friend.

In preparation, I pressed the buttons on the flashlight and tried out its various options: low light, bright light, disco light. I also discovered that I could twist the lens and the light would go broad; twist it the other way and it would narrow. Who knew?

Jim came back, and I got ready for the thrashing, resistance, and screaming. I walked outside dressed in a t-shirt, shorts, and pink slip-ons and met him at the tree.

“Distract it with the light,” he said.

I aimed a low light at the groundhog’s face. Its eyes seemed desperate and tired, and I felt a sad camaraderie.  

The groundhog didn’t resist much as Jim attempted to put the yolk around its neck, but it turned around, and so I aimed the flashlight on the other side.  

“I can probably get it to fall out,” Jim said.

He gently urged it to the edge, and with no thrashing and no sound, the groundhog plopped to the ground and ran off.  

I wanted to yell, “Go you!” but it was 3:30 a.m. and voices carry.

Jim left for work and I went back to bed, but not back to sleep. I thought about how that groundhog was in need, and how need can be a scary place.

Need means we aren’t completely in control. Need requires something to intervene. To help. To sometimes make decisions we can’t make for ourselves.

Need is not a comfortable space to occupy. And need is often not something we can verbalize. Take our groundhog. What could it do? Text a friend? Call 911?

No. The groundhog needed help beyond what technology could provide.

I started to wonder how many times people I care about have needed help and I wasn’t aware of it because I’d assumed they’d reach out. Text. Email. Post an Insta. And then I realized I do the same thing. I don’t call anyone when I’m in need. Not in “need” need. I call my daughters if I’m pissed about something or if Jeopardy isn’t going the way I thought it should, but otherwise…

When I’m in most need, I do what I always do: I get over it, through it, under it, make it go away.

And that’s not a good strategy. For me or any of us.

Think about it: Who is your Jim with the snare? The Lynn with the flashlight? Who are your people who give a shit that you’ve been chased up a tree and have nowhere to go?

I need to work on this answer. I suspect we all do.