An Open Letter to My Woodchuck

Dear Mr. or Ms. Woodchuck,

It is over. The period of compromise, of move-all-the-veggies-you-love-to-the-front-yard-to-avoid-the-issue, of try some one nice diversion method-- well, it's done. Over. Despite my not finding evidence of the hole that your fat body slipped through or created (Yes, I called you fat-- I saw you prancing on Monday afternoon through the yard, acting as though you ruled *my* roost. And, if you're just pregnant, my apologies any insult, and even more reason why you must move away immediately.), today you decimated my kale. You know this well because your woodchuck belly is probably full of it. I'm not sure that you realize that I started that kale under lights and with love on March 29th in my basement, and have been nurturing it for two months since. Also not sure that you realized that you chomped down my LACINATO kale-- the prized kale I'd been looking forward to finally growing myself. I am sure that you didn't pay the electricity or water bill, or help me build the raised beds, or shovel that compost-- yet, you helped yourself. Woodchuck, I keep my lawn long just so you and other little creatures have a little more to munch on. I leave the dandelions and the lambsquarters in it-- both delicious and vitamin-filled repasts. But, it wasn't enough for you.

I might also mention that you didn't stop with my precious kale. You snipped some basil along the way (yes, I noticed), and probably did another munch on the peas you'd already leveled. I don't quite get how you got to the tomatillos, though-- so beautiful and such a splurge that I bought them already 18 inches tall and covered with flowers (well, couldn't find them in plain cell packs)-- it wasn't the lower leaves you took. Nope, somehow you much have tipped the whole plant over and chomped on some top leaves. I know that you're not that tall-- remember, I've seen you-- and I think that maybe even tipped me over the edge.

Woodchuck, you have led me to understand why people take up arms. An inner rage and urge to "protect my property" has come across me-- I did not know those feelings or inclinations even existed. I don't want to torture you, but the idea of your being shot doesn't pain me in the way it used to. I put rotting compost sludge down one of your multiple homes (maybe this one was your vacation residence, so you don't mind too much-- or maybe you were just getting me back) and plan to put used kitty litter down the others. I will not sleep until I find the appropriate deterrents on this here world wide web, and I will not rest until you-- and your family-- are caught or away.

I do not understand how my cat-- who inspires fear into the hearts of neighborhood dogs-- has not scared you away. She and I are going through a trying time as I try to understand what deep trauma has kept her from catching you-- such easy prey. I know it might have been the wrangle with the possum that left her scarred and now has her on prozac, but as soon as her inner soul is healed-- you'd better watch out, because she takes no prisoners.

So, consider this fair warning-- a stern but polite eviction notice, to be followed shortly by any means necessary to end this multi-year fiasco.

Signed,
Ypsiplanter