Groundhog Day in July
I have a long and sordid history with groundhogs, or dirthogs as I like to call ‘em, starting when I was growing up in then semi-rural northern Montgomery County. There was a woods bordering our yard, so there were wild animals around. Birds galore, including the incredibly beauteous but now almost extinct in the wild ring-neck pheasant, rabbits, deer, snakes, etc. And dirthogs. My Dad was a lifelong gardener. General wisdom indicates that gardens and dirthogs do not play well together. Yet there seemed to be some sort of secret deal between Daddy and the generations of dirthog families that lived in a hole under a fallen tree at the yard’s edge. He didn’t fill in that hole, he didn’t fence his garden, and he didn’t strike me as a glutton for punishment. Yet we had plenty of veggies. All the same, the varmits scared me. I’d see ‘em glaring at me w/ ugly dark slits-for-eyes and I never went too near.
Fast forward 2 decades to here in Chesco. Now Greg and I have our own vegetable garden at the old farmhouse we’re renting. And turns out our own dirthogs. They love it, plundering rows of beans and peas and lettuce. We put up a fence and they dig under. We take advice from Amish and put old shoes, hair and light bulbs on top of the fence. We bury part of the fence underground. We even consider going to visit the circus when it was in town to haul back lion poop (supposedly The Final Answer) but after my mule manure adventure (that’s another story) I nix that. Nothing works but we had plenty of disgusting footwear and soggy hair for our effort, making the garden look like a trash heap. How were they getting in? One day I find one and threw a rock at it, never dreaming w/ my usual bad aim that I’d actuallly hit it and kill it. What to do? Show ‘em who’s boss we we’re told. So we let it rot a while then mount it on a stick along the fence—a gruesome last ditch effort. Did they care that their brethren-on-a-stick gave them blank-maggot-eyed warning looks to stay out? Noooooooo.
One day I walk out to the garden and there’s a dirthog—in a tree!! It had climbed up the mulberry tree that slightly overhung the garden and was ready to drop in for the munch. Incredible! We cut down the tree, move the garden close to the house, re-fence and that seems to work ok.
But my brain was still on dirthog duty. One night not long after we moved out here, on the inside I was having a dream about being chased by the dirthog from my tender youth. On the outside, I was standing up in bed screaming my brains out, doing the zombie walk toward the footboard of the bed to dive off and fling myself towards the hard floor and certain injury. Greg jumps awake and grabs me just in time, and we both fall onto a pile of clothes hanging on the clothes tree (a free-standing wooden hanger). A groggy wha?? I don’t remember a thing other than running from the animal. Not realizing how close I came to going to the hospital, I thought it was kinda funny. Greg’s awake the rest of the night. And we both wonder, will this recur? Am I doomed to a lifetime of groundhog days full of screaming meemie nightmares? Was he doomed to be stuck w/ it? Luckily, that particular dream, or at least the physical reaction to it, never happened again.
Fast forward to our present home. Even more hoggers. Entire families strung around the property holed up in dark lairs. Another garden, more episodes of pea and bean buffets for their benefit, another—and more substantial— fence. Then, for a time, peace. We’d yell, they’d run like galloping piles of furry rags, we’d see the babies in the spring grazing on new grass and actually think they were cute. Owwwhhhh, look at ‘em, leetle babieeees. Until the past Sunday: The Weekend of the Attacking Dirthog. I’m working outside in and around the garden. One had come out from its hole established under one of Greg’s outdoor sculptures and was looking at me from maybe 25 ft. away. I yell, as usual, just to keep them on alert. But it doesn’t run. Hmmm. I keep working, and Greg joins me. Suddenly, the damn hogger comes lumbering toward us pretty quickly and we scramble into the back door. It comes right up to the door—in broad daylight—then bounces around against the garden fence before retreating. We were freaked! I venture out the other door in the front, since I’m trying to finish some pruning. Greg stands guard around the corner w/ a shovel. He made some kinda noise and the thing again stampeded toward us. We hustle in the door like weenies, but really pissed off. A while later, we attempt to pick some of the wild wineberries for me to make jam, and this time it charges through the brush right at us, and we run up to the house again. Now every time I venture out the back yard I look for trouble. It’s like our yard has been possessed. Yup, chances are we have a rabid dirthog on our hands. And we have drawn a line in the dirt. So one way or another it ain’t long for this world. Stay tuned.
