As I sit here, staring at a blinking cursor, I’m realizing I blew almost a whole week’s worth of blog topics in one post yesterday. If I’m going to do this on the daily I probably need to get better at my pacing.

So I mentioned the raccoon that’s been digging around in the chicken’s food, but it seems he’s not the only critter who’s made him/herself comfortable ’round here. There’s a portly woodchuck that took up residence in our burn pile, the one I’m not permitted to burn without adult supervision.

(Long story there, suffice to say the last time I tried to burn logs and tree clippings I received an impromptu visit from the local Teen Fire Brigade who blasted charred wood and leaf ash all over my yard with a high-powered hose.)

Anyway, woodchuck.

Throughout my workday I often take quick breaks to go outside, get a little vitamin D and fresh air, and make some noise to dissuade anything that might be eyeing my chickens with malign intent.

Because chickens, while certainly skittish, aren’t exactly brimming with natural defense. Mostly they just amble around, intently staring at the one vector a predator won’t attack them from.

Wait, where was I?

Oh right, woodchuck.

So during yesterday’s “chicken check” I noticed the girls were a little unnerved, and were hanging out right by the front porch. Out of my periphery, I saw something brown and furry scamper across the yard and disappear behind one of our Christmas trees. I kicked off my Birkenstocks (don’t judge) since they lack a “Sport Mode” setting, like the heel straps impart upon Crocs, and sprinted barefoot, directly toward the brown blur.

It occurs to me now that this is a thing I would never have done in my former life as a Houston suburbanite. Instead, I likely would’ve hid in the house, peering out of the window occasionally while furiously Googling, “deadly brown creatures of Texas,” “furry thing removal service,” or “brown creature in yard, what do?”

Alas, these days no one is coming to help me deal with critters, so instead I found myself comfortably sprinting toward the unknown beast, bellowing mightily, with raised Topo Chico in hand so as to look menacing. (Yes. Menacing and imported mineral water aren’t exactly soluble. I’m aware.)

As I reached the tree where the thing had disappeared, I found this…

You know, that picture doesn’t really convey the scale of that burrow very well… Hang on.

So it would appear that not only has he relocated from the burn pile, we also have less of an industry-standard “woodchuck,” and more of “Chuck, the Excavation Contractor Marmot” living in the yard.

At this point, I’m not really sure of what to do about this. I mean, despite how the chickens feel about it, the occasional woodchuck sighting isn’t really a distressing thing.

But then again, I’m going to be seriously unamused if Capt. Chuck tunnels into the garden and helps himself to our fruits and veggies.

I suppose we’ll just wait and see for now. I really don’t want to have to shoot any more animals back there. But, if it’s a choice between Chuck or the strawberries?

Then his chuckin’ wood days are numbered.

j.s.