Here I was innocently watering the new grass, with my back to the woodchuck hole (formerly known as the clean fill beneath the garage), and all of a sudden there were three blood curdling screaming whistles loud enough to hurt my ears, followed by a long trill.
I looked up, of course, expecting to see a pterodactyl, maybe an Amazon drone equipped with anti-Walmart air-to-ground missiles. But there was nothing.
Then it happened again. I cannot emphasize how LOUD this thing is. Like there’s an invisible woman being murdered not three feet away by an equally invisible assailant.
And I’m next.
I swung around to defend myself with the hose sprayer, thoroughly soaking the apricot tree. (We’re not sure it’s really an apricot. That’s what the tag said, but in 5 years it has thus far not managed a single bloom.) I blasted the asparagus and the garage windows and everything in between, still looking up over my head for the source of the screaming.
And then, I thought–could it be the woodchuck?
SHRIEK! SHRIEK! SHRIEK! Chuck, chuck, chuck, chuck, chuck . . . .
Apparently a woman with a hose is a scary thing in woodchuck land.
I sprayed the entrance to the woodchuck hole with lots of water just because I could, and while I unloaded on the woodchuck (who had the presence of mind to scoot further back into the hole), I couldn’t help but notice the strong scent of mothballs.