If You Give a Groundhog Gravy

By Rachel Dib

Groundhogs are the worst—but not for the reasons you might think. Sure, they’re annoying pests. And they have a talent for wrecking my yard and tearing up my carefully tended garden. But my hatred for the large rodent stems from something far greater: their deviousness.

It all started when Mayor Jones decided our small South Carolinian town should have its own Groundhog Day celebration. After all, why tune in to watch Punxsutawney Phil up in Pennsylvania when we could awaken our own groundhog? He instructed his secretary, a.k.a. me, to construct a habitat, import a groundhog, and hire a keeper. He then named the rodent Friendly Felix—a name which only suited Felix if one considered chomping chunks of flesh from his handler’s hand an act of love.

Still, our preparations preceded adequately—until the keeper informed us the day before Groundhog Day that Friendly Felix had expired. Since I hadn’t been keen on waking up at 4 a.m. to ensure everything went smoothly, Friendly Felix’s death came as a relief—for about two seconds. Because of course Mayor Jones insisted the celebration must go on.

“Surely you can find another woodchuck,” he said as he headed back to his office. “Perhaps one that fits the name a little better. We want it to predict the coming of spring, not maul its handler on stage. The last thing I need is for mothers to send me complaints claiming little Jimmy is having nightmares of man-eating rodents.”

He disappeared into his office, and with a sigh, I turned toward my computer. Finding a tame groundhog in time quickly proved to be nigh impossible. The closest farm was over five hours away and only sold pups. I’d be cutting it close just to get the little runt back in time, and I doubted Mayor Jones would consider a baby groundhog a suitable replacement.

When I ran out of reputable markets, I delved into some less respectable ones and finally stumbled upon a listing: “FREE groundhog. Extremely gregarious. Will meet halfway.”

The “gregarious” drew my attention. While I had no idea how a highly sociable groundhog would act, Mayor Jones had wanted friendly. How much friendlier could a groundhog get than extremely gregarious? I made the call and discovered that, yes, Georgie was still available.

I probably should’ve been suspicious when I asked if Georgie would mind being redubbed Friendly Felix and was told, “You can call him whatever you want as long as you take him off my hands.” I also should’ve been a little wary when the owner shoved the cage into my arms muttering, “No returns,” then dashed back to his truck. But I was desperate for a groundhog, and Georgie was my only lead.

Since I’d skipped lunch, I decided on my way back to order out from a diner known for its biscuits and gravy. Within moments of picking up my meal, its savory aroma filled my car. My stomach rumbled. My mouth watered. I just have to drop Georgie off with his keeper and then I can—

“What a delectable smell!” a squeaky voice piped up from the back seat.

I managed to swerve back onto the road before I ended up in a ditch.

“That was close!” the groundhog chirped. “If we’d died, we’d never have partaken of that marvelous-smelling dish!”

I spotted a gas station nearby and, heart pounding in my chest, carefully pulled into the parking lot and spun around.

Georgie stared up at me with dark beady eyes. “Can we eat now? I’m frightfully hungry.” He reached a scrawny arm through the cage bars and slid open the lock. My jaw dropped as the groundhog climbed over the center console and into my lap. His lips quirked in a smile, and he bounced in anticipation, his nails digging into my leg. “I’m ready!”

When I only gaped at him, Georgie gave a little huff and scrambled into the passenger seat. Before I could react, he’d opened the Styrofoam container. He sniffed the contents and sat back on his haunches. “What is that clumpy gooey stuff?”

My mouth felt like sandpaper, but I choked out a reply. “Sausage gravy.”

“Gravy.” Georgie nodded and dipped his paw in the substance. He tasted it, and his eyes squeezed shut. “Heavenly.” He pointed at the biscuit. “That bread goes with it?”

“Yeah… yeah.” I swallowed. “It’s biscuits and gravy.”

He scooped out a chunk of gravy-covered biscuit, then pointed at my cup. “Is that a drink?”

Before I could respond, he was slurping my sweet tea. Since when can groundhogs use straws?

“That’s divine!” He wiped a hairy arm across his mouth and nibbled the gooey biscuit. His eyes squeezed shut once more.  Georgie looked up at me, and his expression had lost its previous good-naturedness. “I’m afraid I must commandeer this food. Any attempts at recovery will be met with extreme prejudice.” He flashed his teeth. “Do you understand?”

Again, my mouth fell open, but I managed to nod.

“Good. Now continue our journey.” He waved out the window. “I suspect this isn’t our destination.”

As Georgie helped himself to my lunch, I pulled back onto the road. It’s okay. Everything is okay… I flicked my eyes to the feasting groundhog. Once I get back, I’ll drop him off with the keeper, and he’ll be someone else’s problem.

It wasn’t okay. The keeper had resigned. Apparently one “Friendly Felix” was one too many.

“But you can fill the position,” Mayor Jones said, beaming at our new groundhog. “Shouldn’t be that hard. Just keep him happy.”

The mayor walked away, and Georgie smirked. “Yes. Keep me happy, and all will be well.”

That was four years ago. Now Georgie is a local celebrity. And, he’s the worst diva ever. Never satisfied for a moment. For instance, if you give that groundhog gravy, he’ll want biscuits to go with it. This will make him rather thirsty, and he’ll ask for some sweet tea…

The demands never end.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Rachel Dib is a stay-at-home mom of three small children. After marrying a soldier, she left her home state of South Carolina to live in random places across the United States. Her works of short fiction have been published by On the Premises magazine, Havok Publishing, and Ye Olde Dragon Books. She has also had short stories published by Toasted Cheese Literary Journal under the name R.J. Snowberger.

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