Last year, a groundhog wrecked havoc on Denisa’s garden. She really got fed up with the critter. At first, she tried traps that would keep it alive, but by the end, I think she was ready to go nuclear if she needed to. Not that it ended up mattering. That groundhog was nigh unstoppable. Elusive and tricksy, he always got away. In fact, I think we even took some video of Denisa toward the end there. Let me see if I can find it.
She was looking pretty rough, I’ll admit . . .
In any case, this spring, the groundhog was back, and he was living it up in style. Lazing around the property, munching, waiting for Denisa to plant something so he could eat it. She wasn’t too fond of that plan, so she plotted herself. Finally, she discovered where he was living: our woodshed.
We borrowed some traps (the deadly kind) from a friend, and I set them up. Vicious things that you put down wherever the hole of the critter in question is. As soon as they pop up to check on their shadow or something, snap! Dead.
Now, my love of groundhogs is pretty well established. But there comes a time in a man’s life where he has to decide which is more important: groundhogs, or his wife’s sanity. I opted in favor of Denisa.
Yesterday, the groundhog met his end. His days of searching for snacks in the garden are over.
I wonder if I’ll ever be able to watch Groundhog Day again with the same level of innocence, knowing that I killed one of them in cold blood.
Please, everyone. A moment of silence for the groundhog.