CULTURE
The Groundhog That Would Not Die
By Robert H. Wills
When the end of the world comes, I predict that groundhogs, those illusive weather forecasters to which we pay homage in February, will be, along with rats, the last critters left on earth. They have, I can attest, a remarkable survival instinct.
A few years ago, I discovered a groundhog hole in our patio next to the foundation of our house. Sometimes called woodchucks, the animals had wisely chosen this location just inches below the bedroom floor under the sheltering branches of a juniper and three hawthorns.
For a groundhog, the site had two big advantages: Some of their four legged enemies – foxes, raccoons – are skittish about coming close to the house. Plus, buried in the foundation are hot-air ducts that warm the interior, but also radiate heat out into the concrete footings, making a cozy location for the animals on winter nights when temperatures drop as low as 10 to 12 degrees below zero.
Through the fall, the groundhogs enlarged their entry hole and added escape exits. Fearing the patio would become undermined and the bedroom wing of the house might someday collapse into woodchuck heaven, I decided to take action. It would be an epic encounter of man against animal, but I knew that man was smarter. I approached the challenge with confidence.
First I tried to drown them out. I plugged the “hidden” escape exits with large rocks then pushed the nozzle down the hole and turned on the water. I stood back to watch, expecting groundhogs to scramble out looking like – well, drowned groundhogs.
Nothing happened. I pushed the nozzle deeper, astonished at how much hose disappeared into the hole. Mysteriously, the hole never filled with water. I pulled the hose to the surface and checked to see whether the water was still running. It was, in a steady stream.
I pushed the hose in deeper and deeper as the pressure seemed to dig into the soil. But the house was built on glacial deposit, so apparently the land alongside could absorb all the water I offered. I persevered and let it run on the assumption that somewhere, down there, it would drown the groundhogs. But the hole would not fill.
I soon tired of this game and decided to seal the entrance.
I went to the woodpile and filled my wheelbarrow with split fireplace logs.
Then, taking my sledge hammer, I began driving them one at a time, end to
end, into the now muddy hole. At three logs deep, I could no longer pound
in more logs.
I did the same at two of the larger escape holes. As I walked away, log ends
were jutting from three holes and I was certain no animal underground could
survive.
The next day, I checked the holes. They were all secure. In succeeding days, I checked again. Days turned to weeks, and weeks to months. The plugs appeared to be doing the job.
Then one day my wife, Cherie, called to me with a smile in her
voice.
“Have you checked the groundhog holes lately?” she asked. “They’re
back.”
She was taking much too much pleasure from her discovery, oddly pleased to
see I’d met my match. But she wanted to get rid of those critters as
badly as I.
When I went to check, I found the animals had dug new holes alongside the old. I pounded in more rocks and logs and tried again to flood them out. Same temporary victory, same ultimate defeat.
By now it was spring, and I knew that soon baby groundhogs would appear, delicately nipping off the blooms of flowers we planted.
I called the Brookfield Humane Society. “Do you have traps I can set to capture groundhogs?” I asked. “I have a groundhog family living in my patio. I would like to clean it out.”
The woman on the other end of the line was pleasant, friendly
-- and hesitant. “Well, yes we do,” she replied. “But not
at this time of the year.”
She stated the obvious. “It’s spring, and this is when they have
their babies. We wouldn’t want to hurt their babies, would we.”
Her voice dropped at the end of the sentence, like it wasn’t a question
but a directive.
“Well, yes we would,” I responded with firmness. “It seems logical to me that this is the time to trap them – to maximize the reduction of their numbers.”
“Sorry,” she said. “Call back in August after their young have left home.”
I went to the hardware store and bought my own trap. It was
called a “live trap,” meaning, I was told, that the animal was
captured alive so it could be released far away from home. That was humane
enough for me.
The recommended bait was sweet corn, which was out of season, but I found
a market selling Florida corn. Close enough.
The trap cage measured about three feet long by one foot high. It had hinged openings at each end that snapped shut when the bait, placed in the middle, was triggered. Once the animal was captured, according to the instructions, I was to slide a long steel pin into each end, locking the trap door in place, and then drive the animal several miles away to set it free. Simple enough.
But if all I’m doing is transporting the beast, I thought, aren't I just dumping my problem in someone else’s backyard? With the humane society lady’s voice still strong in my memory, I knew exactly where I wanted to dispose of my groundhog. Their headquarters is, by my reckoning, “several miles away.”
I cut one ear of corn into fourths, baited the trap and placed it on the patio lawn where we could watch it through the window. It wasn’t long before a groundhog ventured from under the juniper. Smelling the corn, it headed straight for the trap and, with only slight hesitation, entered to feast. As it gnawed with its imposing incisors at the bait, bang, both ends slammed down and the animal was trapped.
“Gotcha!” I yelled. I was elated; no, I was ecstatic.
Then, reality set in. I had to dispose of the animal. It was big – appearing larger in the trap than outside -- and there were immediate complications. When it discovered it couldn’t get out, it went into a frenzy. It snapped at the cage sides, tore back and forth from one end to the other and reared up on its hind legs. It was one angry animal.
Most impressively, it kept those giant incisors – that obviously could chomp right through my fingers – chittering and snapping as it now concentrated on the crack at the bottom of the trap door. And I still hadn’t slipped the two wire pins through both ends to secure the entries.
While I went to look for leather gloves, Cherie watched the groundhog, offering a running commentary on its activity:
“Bob, it’s sticking its nose into the crack at the
bottom. It’s forcing it open.” Her voice raised an octave. “Hurry
up,” she shouted, “it’s getting away.”
Forgetting the gloves, I grabbed the pins, went outside and with a boldness
that belied my fear, I slid them into place. But at the sight of me, the animal
went into a complete rage. It clawed at the cage and worked its nose farther
under the trap door, the incisors exiting first.
In its agitation, the groundhog also began excreting every liquid and solid from its bowels and urinary tract. Aha, I thought, this is the way the groundhog reduces its physical size to squeeze through impassable passages.
With the excretion came the most god-awful smell, some kind
of musk, similar to that of a skunk. The patio reeked. Another defense mechanism?
“What is that smell?” Cherie asked. “What if it gets free
in the SUV while we are driving down the freeway? How will we ever get that
stink out of the Suburban?”
She made it clear she would not get into the truck with the animal under any circumstances. I was on my own.
I delayed my departure hoping the animal would calm. It did not. But what was becoming more inevitable occurred. Sensing that it was making progress, the groundhog squeezed its snout farther and farther into the crack at the bottom of the trapdoor. Groundhogs have flat heads, and using his like a wedge, our animal pushed his body into the impossibly narrow space.
Before our eyes, the animal squeezed through the crack and rushed to its hole and safety. Houdini couldn’t have done it better.
I felt a mixture of amazement, disappointment and relief. That solved the freeway problem, but it left us sharing our yard with a groundhog family in an uneasy peace.
Several years later, when we sold our Brookfield home, I felt it fair to point out to the buyers the groundhog abode juxtaposed to ours.
“Don’t worry,” the new owners cheerfully replied. “We have this big cat….”
Cat versus groundhog? I’ll put my money on the groundhog.
