Miss Maggie
08-18-2004, 23:30
One purpose of a writer's group or writer's forum should be to examine the work of others and to offer suggestions to further improve the quality of the written piece. So far, I've noticed no one is making suggestions on any of the writings which have been submitted. So with the stated purpose in mind, I'm asking for suggestions to improve this piece. It has been published previously in a small regional publication.
How To Kill a Groundhog
Shoulders humped, his silvered head bent down, one of my favorite customers shuffled across the parking lot. He paused at the entrance gate to the greenhouse, propping against the fence to rest before looking over our selection of tomato plants.
While he rested, his usual huge smile creased his face and he nodded at everyone who passed him, the pure joy of living twinkling from his faded blue eyes.
I headed toward him, intent on finding his Rutgers tomato plants and saving him the struggle of walking up the long tomato row to find them.
Today he surprised me. He shook his head and struggled past me, centering himself between the long row of tomatoes and a bench where several women happily picked through a display of colorful petunias.
Leaning against the bench, he paused long enough to catch his breath. When he spoke it was loudly enough to get the attention of everyone in the immediate area. “What’s the best way to kill a groundhog?”
Petunias and tomato plants forgotten, the group of shoppers snapped to attention, ready to join in the conversation.
“I need to know, too,” someone said. “A groundhog mowed off my pepper plants. Danged little critter didn’t even eat ’em. Just left ’em drying up and shriveled on the ground.”
Everyone had a groundhog story to tell. I had a brand new one to share, complete with the evidence to prove it.
Just two days before, a groundhog had mowed off three huge planters of mixed petunia and sweet potato vines. These pots had measured three feet across and stood close to thirty inches tall. The potato vines had filled the pots, cascading down the sides and spilling over onto the ground, brilliantly carpeting the area in glowing chartreuse. Radiant, jewel-toned petunias intermingled their showy trumpets within the vines, their sweet fragrance perfuming the air. The pots were just waiting for the right person to come along and spot them. They’d been sure to bring a hefty jingle to the cash register.
I pointed to those three once-beautiful pots, now containing a maze of naked, tangled stems. Unlike the pepper plants, though, this little critter had eaten every leaf he’d chomped off.
At my angry screech of horror at sight of the ravaged plants, a startled groundhog bobbled from behind one of the pots. With me right behind him, he skedaddled, his stubby, bristled legs pumping in fear. Plunging wildly toward the fence, he found an opening and darted through, his little belly dragging the ground. I wanted to strangle him with my bare hands.
“Yeah, dratted old groundhogs cause nothing but trouble, chomping the crops and digging out dens,” the old man sympathized as I continued with my story.
I couldn’t take a chance on this furry little thief staying around and wiping out another hundred dollars’ worth of plants for his next meal. However, it’s one thing to want to kill the little rascal, and it’s another thing entirely to do it.
I knew we’d have to do something, so I found a trap guaranteed to safely ensnare any small animal without harming it, and I baited the trap with sweet potato vines.
That very night, the little critter got a hankering for another meal of potato vines and sprung the trap, imprisoning himself behind the metal wires.
Thinking this would be a snap, I called a friend who works with wildlife and left a message concerning relocating the groundhog. While I waited for the return phone call, I watched my prisoner inspecting the wires of the cage, searching for a way of escape. Thinking he might get hungry since he’d have to be in the cage until my friend called back, I dropped him a cherry tomato. His tiny paws looked almost like little hands holding the fruit. Each time he wolfed one down, he begged for another. He didn’t appear frightened at all.
Then my friend called, warning me that if anyone caught me relocating a wild groundhog he wasn’t sure exactly what would happen, but I’d not like it. Wild animals cannot be moved from one area to another because of the danger of spreading rabies. If the groundhog was giving trouble, I should shoot him while I had him caught.
The idea of shooting a caged animal was unthinkable, even though just yesterday I’d wanted to kill him with my bare hands. I explained that the little fellow did not have rabies, that he was only hungry. He had a right to eat, same as we did.
“Then do what you have to do, just don’t relocate him,” the friend warned.
I opened the cage and ran for cover, knowing groundhogs can be vicious. But once he realized he was free, he took off in a running roll, leaving me with the job of relocating the remaining sweet potato vines out of his reach.
“Well that’s all well and good,” one woman stated, “but it still doesn’t tell me how to get rid of a groundhog.”
The old man who’d started this whole tale reached for his Rutgers tomatoes and turned to go, his eyes shooting sparks of mischief. “I’ll tell you how to get rid of a groundhog,” he declared. “Throw snuff in its hole and when it comes up to spit, whack it over the head with a 2x4.”
How To Kill a Groundhog
Shoulders humped, his silvered head bent down, one of my favorite customers shuffled across the parking lot. He paused at the entrance gate to the greenhouse, propping against the fence to rest before looking over our selection of tomato plants.
While he rested, his usual huge smile creased his face and he nodded at everyone who passed him, the pure joy of living twinkling from his faded blue eyes.
I headed toward him, intent on finding his Rutgers tomato plants and saving him the struggle of walking up the long tomato row to find them.
Today he surprised me. He shook his head and struggled past me, centering himself between the long row of tomatoes and a bench where several women happily picked through a display of colorful petunias.
Leaning against the bench, he paused long enough to catch his breath. When he spoke it was loudly enough to get the attention of everyone in the immediate area. “What’s the best way to kill a groundhog?”
Petunias and tomato plants forgotten, the group of shoppers snapped to attention, ready to join in the conversation.
“I need to know, too,” someone said. “A groundhog mowed off my pepper plants. Danged little critter didn’t even eat ’em. Just left ’em drying up and shriveled on the ground.”
Everyone had a groundhog story to tell. I had a brand new one to share, complete with the evidence to prove it.
Just two days before, a groundhog had mowed off three huge planters of mixed petunia and sweet potato vines. These pots had measured three feet across and stood close to thirty inches tall. The potato vines had filled the pots, cascading down the sides and spilling over onto the ground, brilliantly carpeting the area in glowing chartreuse. Radiant, jewel-toned petunias intermingled their showy trumpets within the vines, their sweet fragrance perfuming the air. The pots were just waiting for the right person to come along and spot them. They’d been sure to bring a hefty jingle to the cash register.
I pointed to those three once-beautiful pots, now containing a maze of naked, tangled stems. Unlike the pepper plants, though, this little critter had eaten every leaf he’d chomped off.
At my angry screech of horror at sight of the ravaged plants, a startled groundhog bobbled from behind one of the pots. With me right behind him, he skedaddled, his stubby, bristled legs pumping in fear. Plunging wildly toward the fence, he found an opening and darted through, his little belly dragging the ground. I wanted to strangle him with my bare hands.
“Yeah, dratted old groundhogs cause nothing but trouble, chomping the crops and digging out dens,” the old man sympathized as I continued with my story.
I couldn’t take a chance on this furry little thief staying around and wiping out another hundred dollars’ worth of plants for his next meal. However, it’s one thing to want to kill the little rascal, and it’s another thing entirely to do it.
I knew we’d have to do something, so I found a trap guaranteed to safely ensnare any small animal without harming it, and I baited the trap with sweet potato vines.
That very night, the little critter got a hankering for another meal of potato vines and sprung the trap, imprisoning himself behind the metal wires.
Thinking this would be a snap, I called a friend who works with wildlife and left a message concerning relocating the groundhog. While I waited for the return phone call, I watched my prisoner inspecting the wires of the cage, searching for a way of escape. Thinking he might get hungry since he’d have to be in the cage until my friend called back, I dropped him a cherry tomato. His tiny paws looked almost like little hands holding the fruit. Each time he wolfed one down, he begged for another. He didn’t appear frightened at all.
Then my friend called, warning me that if anyone caught me relocating a wild groundhog he wasn’t sure exactly what would happen, but I’d not like it. Wild animals cannot be moved from one area to another because of the danger of spreading rabies. If the groundhog was giving trouble, I should shoot him while I had him caught.
The idea of shooting a caged animal was unthinkable, even though just yesterday I’d wanted to kill him with my bare hands. I explained that the little fellow did not have rabies, that he was only hungry. He had a right to eat, same as we did.
“Then do what you have to do, just don’t relocate him,” the friend warned.
I opened the cage and ran for cover, knowing groundhogs can be vicious. But once he realized he was free, he took off in a running roll, leaving me with the job of relocating the remaining sweet potato vines out of his reach.
“Well that’s all well and good,” one woman stated, “but it still doesn’t tell me how to get rid of a groundhog.”
The old man who’d started this whole tale reached for his Rutgers tomatoes and turned to go, his eyes shooting sparks of mischief. “I’ll tell you how to get rid of a groundhog,” he declared. “Throw snuff in its hole and when it comes up to spit, whack it over the head with a 2x4.”