Reluctantly celebrating Groundhog Day in my yard, six months late

On a steamy July morning, a three-word text from my boyfriend jarred me out of my summer daze: “Check the trap.”

Before dawn, he had baited a cage with some cantaloupe and placed it just outside the garden of our East Side home. He’d been doing this for weeks but had caught only possums. That day, though, I wandered outside to find a sleek, brown animal cowering at the back of the trap — a groundhog.

I imagined the scene: An oblivious denizen of my overrun yard had surfaced in search of a refreshing snack when SNAP! — eviction notice.

The animal and I regarded each other. In its beady eyes steeped nervous rage. Its paws grasped furiously at the wire mesh. The closer I came to the trap, the harder the muddled marmot slammed its body around inside it.

Can groundhogs die of stress, I wondered? I didn’t need that on my conscience.

“Oh, hi, little guy,” I said, as though addressing one of my cats. For the first time, I felt sorry for the animal — an unexpected about-face given how often I’d cursed it and its brethren whenever I found a half-eaten fruit in the dirt instead of a ripe tomato on the vine.

I knew from the marks on my ruined produce that the animal had sharp teeth capable of expertly removing sizable chunks of flesh, tomato and otherwise. And I knew that many rodents also carry rabies. So when I carried the cage to my car, I held it at least a foot away from my body as the groundhog pressed its smooth, black nose against the wire.

I snapped a photo of my terrified passenger and texted my boyfriend: “Holy shit, it’s in the backseat.” And it was about to embark on its first car ride.

I’d read that groundhogs can find their way back to a burrow from up to 5 miles away. Not wanting to take any chances with this particular rodent’s homing sense, I chose a release spot more than 13 miles from my home, near Swope Park. After spending the spring watering, weeding and watching caterpillar-size cucumbers slowly swell to the size of my forearm, I had grown attached to my food. I was willing to take extra steps to protect it.

The groundhog was not my only enemy. In the spring, soggy weather (the sixth-rainiest May in 140 years) assaulted the yard, leading to a proliferation of mosquitoes and other bugs and forcing my boyfriend and me to use pesticides for the first time. (We made this call reluctantly after something devoured our broccoli plants overnight.)

We also see lots of deer near us, and we have learned that deer do not give one fuck.

Lured by greenery that’s still lush late in the season, they wandered into our yard and ate our sunflowers and our Brussels sprouts, as though daring us to take action.

But once in a while this season, I’ve peered out at the garden in the morning and seen a flash of orange peeking through the maze of plants: a ripening tomato, one that has survived flooding and bugs and nonresident mammals. No enterprising groundhog was going to spoil that for us.

When the groundhog and I had nearly reached our destination, I realized that my passenger hadn’t moved in a while. They do say moving is among the more stressful life experiences — especially if it involves being caught in a steel trap while ordering breakfast. Had panic overcome the animal?

No. Instead, the steady movement of the car had soothed him, enough so that I began to like it a little. Those beady eyes now seemed a bit soulful, the sharp toes like tiny, wrinkled Tootsie Rolls. “You OK, dude?” I asked, turning around and waving my hand in front of the cage.

The animal flailed wildly, banging itself again into the sides of the cage. The bonding was over.
At the drop spot, I carried the cage back into a thatch of trees and popped it open. The groundhog bounded off into the brush.

Back in my car, I sent a text: “Problem solved.” For a moment, I worried about what the groundhog would eat that night. But then I imagined biting into a ripe, red tomato slice with salt, basil and fresh mozzarella — and I forgot all about it.