My Groundhog Days
When being a homeowner also means being an apex predator
Last week, I spotted a large, rotund groundhog peeping out of a hole near the edge of my property, and the sight of that big, fat mama filled my heart with joy.
This is not how groundhogs used to make me feel.
When I moved to Beacon back in 2014—following four intense years of construction on a mixed-use building in Brooklyn—I was burnt out and hoped to buy a house that just needed in a nice interior renovation. But when I first walked down the lot that would ultimately become my property, and took in its dazzling, panoramic view of the Hudson River, my nice, modest plan got shot to hell. Because the multi-family house on that property was barely standing. Then, once we got into it, most of the walls ended up being too far gone, causing the full-scale renovation (to which I had reluctantly signed on) to then morph into foundation-up new construction. That project sent me into the red deeper and longer than I had ever imagined. It wasn’t until the Spring of 2017, with my construction finally finished — and with rental income now magically appearing in my checking account for the bottom unit — that my buttcheeks reclaimed their individual identities and the rest of me returned to enjoying life in the black.
For about a week.
That’s when I spotted a groundhog crawling out from beneath my foundation.
You may not realize this, but groundhogs don’t have bowling alleys or Netflix, so there’s not much for them to do but tunnel and dig. And dig. In fact, those little motherfuckers can dig out caverns beneath a foundation so deep and wide as to structurally damage a house. And not just any house — MY house. My costly, complicated dream house that I was finally stretching out in. So the sight of that groundhog crawling out of that hole sent me into a psychotic spiral, as though Charles Bronson in Death Wish got with Bill Murray in Caddyshacks. I grabbed a broomstick and began poking around, feeling a measure of relief that the hole appeared to be the end of a tunnel as opposed to the opening to a cavern. I maniacally began shoving rocks and gravel as far down as I could, stuffing that hole with the broomstick as though fattening up a foie gras goose. And when I couldn’t get anything else in there, I poured in a whole bag of quick-dry cement and then turned on my hose to lock it up.
While this did effectively shut down that tunnel, the ongoing sight of groundhogs on my property led me to consider a guy I know in Beacon who manages the rabbits that eat his garden with an air gun. Then, he eats the rabbits. This felt like the perfect solution for any meat eater, which would further spare the lives of a few lucky chickens. So I went and asked The Internet about groundhog recipes.
You wouldn’t believe how many I found.
Although, I found even more for squirrel. And, well, anything can be made to taste good if you deep-fry it in a thick-enough batter. I was about to ask to borrow that airgun when I spotted a whole gang of groundhogs defiantly staring me down. That’s when I thought — to paraphrase Roy Scheider in Jaws — You’re gonna eat a lot of groundhog.
Quite aside from finding the time for the grisly chore of killing, cleaning and dressing them, I wondered how long I could expect friends to put on a cheery face upon being invited over, again, for groundhog chili. Or groundhog tacos. Or groundhog Bolognese.
Did you know that the stomach has a brain?
That’s some wacky shit. But I suspect that my stomach brain may have flagged to my main brain that I had never seen another groundhog exiting or entering anywhere near my foundation. Instead, the groundhogs had done some serious tunneling near the corner of my property before it drops down a steep hill. On closer inspection, I could even see (and feel) where the ground was hollow beneath me. The hole visibly teed off into two separate tunnels; someone explained to me that groundhogs do this because they literally don’t shit where they eat. I found that rather civilized of them and my murderous feelings began to soften. I further realized that I would never have peace without a two-home solution. And so long as the groundhogs kept their home over here, they could knock themselves out.
Then, in the Spring of 2018, I spotted a litter of babies coming out of that hole. They’re pretty cute — especially when they get up on their hind legs. Still, I was concerned that those kids might grow into unruly teenagers that would branch out toward my foundation. I had heard of people using Havaheart traps to humanely relocate groundhogs, but that didn’t seem like a great idea, either. First, groundhogs can cover a lot of ground (holy crap it’s right there in their name) so there’s a decent chance you’d just be making a problem for another homeowner. Also, this was right when the Trump administration began its horrific and cruel policy of separating migrant families at the border and putting traumatized kids into cages. It sure seemed like those groundhogs were families, and so I wondered how much better separating them would be than killing and eating them.
Luckily, those kids kept away from my foundation, too. Then, in the Spring of 2019, when I first spotted a new litter exiting the hole, I imagined that I had watched those kids grow up and inherit the deed, which they would then pass down to their kids the following year. I even considered building an actual house above the hole, thinking I’d get a kick out of watching them go in and out of an actual doorway.
Then, in the Spring of 2020, The Thing came.
It’s not worth detailing why The Thing cranked my personal stress level up to 11, but I spent more time than ever out on my deck, watching barges pass by on the Hudson River, watching Scarlet Tanagers land on my handrail, and really just doing whatever I could to chill the fuck out. So, when I first spotted a new litter, those kids felt like a reminder — during that fraught and fearful time — that there was still continuity to Life. And that somehow, everything would be okay.
And it was — until I spotted the first fox.
Then, the following day, I spotted not one, not two but THREE foxen. (Check them out in this video.) The day after that, I stepped outside and my stomach dropped at the sight of a fox crawling out of the groundhogs’ home. If you can imagine, I couldn’t stop looking out the window and stepping out onto the deck, and so it wasn’t long before I spotted the mama up on her hind legs at the base of the hole, appearing to be hyperventilating. I then promptly began anthropomorphizing the shit out of her, thinking how she was just a mama groundhog — working hard and playing by the rules, until the day she dashed out just to pick up a quart of milk and a pack of smokes, only to return home to find what was left of her kids. But Nature is indiscriminate and can be as ugly as it is beautiful. Human Nature, too.
Sadly, the rest of that spring and summer of 2020 would pass without me spotting any more groundhogs going in or out of that home. (I wondered if the drop in road traffic led to them stretching out in other venues.) Until one day that fall, I spotted a fresh, plump groundhog shaking its fat ass as it scurried down the far edge of my driveway. I wanted to call out and say, “There’s a perfectly good one-bed, one-bath Right. Over. THERE.”
I’m not sure if it was him, but new groundhogs did move into that home. Fast forward to a few days ago when I was glad to spot what I hope might be a new mama coming out of the hole, and that May might bring another litter of kids.
But if I ever catch one of those damn kids tunneling beneath my foundation, I won’t be running out there yelling, “You kids get offa my yard!” Nope. They won’t even hear me coming.
I figure a five-hour braise in red wine and pomegranate molasses might be my best shot at making it taste like chicken.
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