It was a mismatch from the start. The woodchuck had made it halfway across the driveway, about 30 feet from the treeline, when Fletch swooped in on wings of death. Four violent shakes, a last glimpse of the sky, then cartwheeling down, paws up, in the driveway.
The children peered from the kitchen as we shoveled the carcass off the ground and dropped it - with little fanfare - into a white plastic bag. It was as heavy as a bowling ball.
I tried to dig a hole in the woods at a spot I thought he'd like. Three maples grew toward each other, cupping a small hollow at the base where their compost mingled. The tree roots defied me, however, turning my shovel aside not six inches down. I was wearing sandals, a canary yellow golf shirt and Brooks Brothers khakis.
Three hemlocks grew together in the woods across the street. I lugged the chuck there and placed him between them to rot. Fletch won't disturb the body. We have an underground fence surrounding our property and the border patrol punishes unauthorized crossings with cruel voltage. He waited at the fence line for my return, strutting and breathing deeply the first atoms of decay as they fell from my khaki pants.
Thank you for treating us to such an epic drama. True, with Fletch up against the groundhog, we all had an idea how the story would end. But the telling was beautiful.
Posted by: ro' | July 09, 2004 at 12:11 PM