Death and the Groundhog

So, Momma groundhog and her four adorable offspring have been enjoying the bounty of the garden for three months now. They have an extensive network of tunnels that run under the barn and pop out at all corners. They have grown fat and bold as they inhabit the land; rabid squatters wearing their entitlement on their furry sleeves.

Sunday was the final show down. I returned from the feed and farm supply store in Massachusetts armed and ready with Wyle E. Coyote-like smoke bombs (envision "ACME" being stamped on their sides and you've got the whole picture). Diligently, my husband fills in the holes at the tunnel openings with rocks, sod and logs, stuffing plastic sheeting into crevices too tricky to fill.

We've got them now!

We light the fuse and toss the little sticks of smokey dynamite into the remaining opening, quickly filling in with sod. My husband, displaying true primal male instinct, circles the barn wielding a shovel while the children yell, "Whack 'em on the head, Dad! Whack 'em on the head!" So much for the catch and release "Have a Heart" family we used to be.

Little puffs of smoke seep out the crevices of the old wooden barn. We add sod. He circles with the spade ever ready to whack any escapees. We toss in another bomb, then another. The smoke settles. We take a break.

"Mom! Mom! Dad says he needs you!" calls the seven year old.
"Tell him I'm in the shower."
"I think the barn's a little on fire."

Towel clad, I run out the door to find my primitive hunter-gatherer blasting the side of the barn with the garden hose. Minor damage. Fire's out. Big relief.

At least we got the groundhogs.

Fast forward to this morning, when who do I see chomping on a nearly bloomed gladiola? Hear me and hear me good, Mr. Fatty: WE GONNA GET YOU SUCKA!

-Let the record reflect that over the past three months we caught two babies and one racoon in a Have a Heart trap and released them in the suburban wilderness

Me&Mr.McGregor

Somebody's been eating my garden!

The spring peas, the broccoli, the squash--all from seed! All decimated!

At first, I thought it was Mr. Rabbit, who generally poses no real nuisance, but graces our suburban landscape with his bucholic bunniness.

Sorry kids, Peter's gotta go. The protests are deafening. Suddenly I understand Mr. McGregor and all the agony that those pesky rodents put him through. You till, you plant, you mulch...then, poof! Gone!

Then I see him: not a rabbit at all. A woodchuck! A sleek, obese woodchuck. Like a latter day Fatty Arbuckle, he backs into his hole under the barn.

So, here's this weeks shopping list as I head for the Stop&Shop: bagels, organic chicken, woodchuck trap...ya think they have them in stock?