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Grundy the Groundhog
 Grundy, the groundhog, is dead. Defunct. Kaput.
Yesterday, when I made my daily trudge to the mailbox on Cherry Street, I found him on the center line; he was sprawled on his back, his paws raised like a boxer, and his prominent teeth barred for one more fight. His fierce little eyes still held a dying spark of rage. I hauled him to the porch rather than see him ground to a flitter by the speeding cars. I’ll plant him in the garden where he belongs.
Grundy lived in my garden for eight years. Since that first summer, his presence was both an affliction and an “entertainment.” He routinely destroyed the majority of what I planted. From the deck each year, I watched him pluck all of my lettuce and spinach. He would roll each leaf into a compact little cylinder, and while he surveyed his domain, he would slowly munch them the way Bugs Bunny ate a carrot. When he had all he wanted, he would trash the rest, creating a windmill explosion of shredded leaves and roots. Then, he would stretch himself to his full height, turn toward the deck where I sat with my dog ... and wait.
Jack, my Jack Russell, always makes his obligatory race to the garden, but Grundy would be gone before the frustrated dog was halfway there. Dropping to all fours, Grundy would sort of flow away, his black and brown coat rippling through the undergrowth. Jack would give a few half-hearted yelps and race aimlessly back and forth.
Grundy loved sugar peas, so I finally quit growing them. This year, while Jack and I were gone to elderhostel classes, he ate all of the corn. Every ear! He demolished all of the sunflowers and got all the half-runner beans he could reach.
My tomatoes didn’t make anything this year so I guess I can’t blame him for that. I should also be thankful that he left the potatoes and gourds.
The nearest I ever came to “doing Grundy in” was the year he killed my favorite cat, Tigger and reduced his brother, Silly, to a half-blind cripple. A friend of mine offered to shoot Grundy, but I ended up arguing that the cats had attacked the groundhog. Maybe he was just defending himself. My friend smiled wearily and gave me four “rat-shot” shells for my .22 and said, “Well, if you aren’t going to kill him, you can at least teach him a lesson.”
I did, too. A week later, I found Grundy and Jack’s predecessor, Teddie, in a standoff. I knew that Teddie didn’t stand a chance, so I loaded the rat-shot and took aim. The charge turned Grundy a flip and he vanished for the rest of the summer. But he was back the following year. He no longer came close to the house, though Jack and I watched him forage in the lower part of the garden. Occasionally, little storms of morning glories and grass would windmill into the air, and Grundy would venture a bit closer, sitting erect and waiting for Jack to make his play.
Now that he is gone, I think about his career. I guess he was a bachelor since a troop of young’uns never followed him into the garden. Did he have a girlfriend in Cope Creek? Did they meet on moonlit nights in some rendezvous? Are groundhogs capable of perversity and whim?
My garden seems incomplete without Grundy, but maybe it just needs sugar peas.
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