This is the long, rambling story of a woodchuck. If the reader of this story has a large imagination and a small stomach, then perhaps he should reconsider being a reader today. In this story things happen to the woodchuck; bad things; gory things. If the reader is short on time or attention span, this may not be the story for him either as it is rumored to be "long and rambling". So, readers beware, you are now aware.
This is the story of the demise of a woodchuck, but said woodchuck began as any other woodchuck, lumbering around country folks' yards, trying to break through the fences of their luscious gardens. We'll begin with the demisable woodchuck, undemised at the edge of a fenced garden.
Sorry is the country folk who forgets a fence, for woodchucks are quick to take note of forgotten fences and glutton themselves on hard earned crops. Thankfully, in the case of the country folk in this story, namely the Muritchells, a fence was in place guarding their then sparse, but hopefully someday, luscious garden.
So the woodchuck, well aware of the would-be luscious garden, and also aware of the fence surrounding it, (having run at full-trot, face-first into it on numerous occasions and also having no luck with attempted digs under that doggone fence,) he decided to wait. Wait for the garden to grow out of its sparseness. Wait for a breach in garden security. Wait for a good meal. He chose for his waiting place the two enormously heavy propane tanks seated across the Muritchell's yard with a perfect view of the garden of his dreams. He did not wait next to the tanks, or between them, or behind them, or on top of them. Needing his whereabouts to be concealed from the Muritchells and their fierce canine, he dug a hole under the two tanks and hoped to high heaven that the ground would not give way to the enormously heavy tanks above him.
All was well for our woodchuck hiding under propane tanks, until one warm afternoon, a shiny black nose came sniffing down his hole. Now, woodchucks are not keen on disturbances when their grumbling stomachs are waiting for a fine meal. This particular woodchuck could only endure little more than an hour of constant sniffing before he climbed out of his hole to challenge that wet, sniffing nose. Much to his chagrin, the nose was attached to a much larger dog, which was not just any dog, but the fierce one belonging to the Muritchells. Having come face to face with her nose and then her long, sharp teeth, the woodchuck panicked and instead of backing down into his hole, which may have been the safest idea, he took off running.
It didn't take many strides before he realized that one half-hearted dog stride was comparable to no fewer than ten of his most well meaning strides, which meant that the canine would soon outrun him. Once again, he panicked and dodged under the nearest thing ready to be dodged under.
The underbelly of the Muritchell's mobile was only slightly more secure than the wide open air, or so it seemed to the frightened, confused woodchuck. Although that dog was, so far, unable to flatten herself enough to slither under the mobile to him, the woodchuck figured it was only a matter of time. The dog tried twisting and forming her body into shapes unthinkable for a dog of her size, all the while producing every dog sound thinkable at the helplessly bewildered woodchuck who was then resorting to prayer. He needed a miracle, teleportation, a guardian angel, Superman, something, anything, that would rescue him from the growling, the barking, the whining, the contorting, and the eventuality of the fierce canine's success and the praying varmint's demise.
But then, when hope was running low and the incessant dog sounds were alarming the neighbors, our wood chuck saw a light above his head. The heavens had heard! Hallelujah! The woodchuck followed this heavenly sign up, up, and through a hole not any bigger than himself. Once in amongst the engine parts, he could not get comfortable between this wire and that battery and this tube and that valve, but his discomfort was of little concern, for the woodchuck was free from the sight of the dog, who promptly stopped sounding and plopped herself in a heap of defeat by the rear wheel. Relieved and exhausted, the woodchuck fell asleep under the hood, tangled in wires, rather uncomfortable, but safe at last.
This is where the story turns to the Muritchells. The Mr. was away working, having left the Lady Muritchell at home with their two fine sons and that fierce dog whose whines and moans we've already become acquainted with. Not only was the dog alerting the neighbors, but the attention of the Lady was got, and soon enough, she came storming out of the house, muttering breathy mutters.
"...stupid, annoying..."
"... SPCA..."
"... such an embarrassment..."
"...ridiculous..."
"Ummm, what are you carrying about, anyway?"
At this point, she bent over next to her stupid, annoying (but quite fierce) canine to have a look for herself. With the way that dog used every word in the dog language, the Lady Muritchell was certain there had to be something there and was a wee bit nervous over what she might find under her car, but upon investigation she saw nothing. Absolutely nothing. This finding prompted more grumbling. And the defeated mutt sulked into the house behind the disgruntled Lady.
The Muritchells had planned an evening grocery trip to Wegmans just as soon as Mr. Muritchell returned home. For country folk like the Muritchells, grocery shopping was a journey of epoch proportion. Dutifully, they drove thirty miles to spend hours in Wegmans whenever the need arose to fill their pantry and fridge. The need had arisen that evening.
The four Muritchells loaded into the Lady's car-- yes, the one where slept a woodchuck amongst the engine parts, but this was not known to the Muritchells. The Lady had grumbled some more to her husband, motioning at the underside of their mobile and cursing her dog for the eighty third time that day. The Mr. had also bent over to inspect, finding the exact same nothing that she had. And so they shrugged their shoulders and dutifully drove those thirty miles to Wegmans where they would spend two hours eating their evening meal and gathering the food they would need for the following weeks.
With their meal consumed and their goods gotten, the Muritchells returned to the mobile for the long journey back to the middle of nowhere. The Lady was behind the wheel, the Mr. manning the passenger seat, the fine boys doing fine boy things in the back. The Lady nonchalantly backed out of their parking spot, turned the wheel, shifted into gear, and released the break. She moved her foot to the gas pedal and the car slid forward then immediately jolted over a speed bump. But wait, was there a speed bump there before? The Lady and her Mr. simultaneously glanced up at the rear view mirror. There in the middle of the Wegmans parking lot was a dark, compact lump, the size of a two foot speed bump.
"What is it?" One whispered.
"It looks like a black garbage bag."
"Did we drop something?"
"I don't know."
"Drive back around."
By this time, other patrons had taken notice of the mysterious black lump and were making their way over for close examination. The Muritchells circled the lot in order that they too might examine closely the speed bump that had mysteriously appeared behind their parking spot. Lady Muritchell, having a foreboding in her gut, made sure to pull up to the left of the lump so that Mr. Muritchell could be the one to examine.
"What is it?" She prodded. He was awfully silent.
"I think it's a woodchuck."
"Is it alive?"
"No, it's definitely not."
"What should I do?"
"Keep driving."
And that's what they did, leaving behind their own brand of roadkill in the Wegmans parking lot.
•images from google
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