As early as 1674 settlers in Virginia became acquainted with this burrowing rodent. Attempting to spell its Indian name, they joined two English words and called him “woodchuck.” Later, in Pennsylvania, the botanist John Betrand referred to the creature as a “groundhog,” probably a translation from the Dutch, aardvarken, meaning “earth pig.” In West Virginia, this animal of many names is referred to as a “whistle pig.” Whatever his name, he was an unwelcome invader on our garden several years ago. He and his army of younger groundhogs lived in a burrow under the garden house of the neighbor who lived in back of us.
Early every morning the march down the hill to our garden began, the stocky older general leading the way, followed by several younger, hungry recruits. They divided the territory, some taking positions in the lettuce patch, other amid the cucumbers or green beans. The general stood erect, surveying his troops with beady eyes, then satisfied that they were performing their assignments, set to chomping on the tomatoes.
Of course we rushed to chase them out of the garden, but it takes a while to climb the steps to the upper level where Harry had laboriously fashioned terraces with railroad ties to create three beds, 50 feet long and 10 feet wide. These beds were filled with rich compost and the lush growth promised a bountiful harvest. But these subterranean creatures feasting there daily were making that more and more unlikely.
When they heard our approach, they retreated, disappearing into their hole on the neighbor’s property. As soon as we were out of sight, they returned and the process began all over again. We could not stand guard 24 hours, so we set a box trap, but without success. No bait we put there could entice them from the luscious buffet nearby.
Appeals to our neighbor were in vain. She viewed the situation as comical — these cute little animals, sneaking into the nearby garden for a special treat – sort of like Peter Rabbit, in Beatrix Potter’s colorful children’s story. She even sent us a “thank-you” card signed by Mr. and Mrs. Groundhog, thanking us for the delicious vegetables they were enjoying. The card featured a snapshot of our garden, decorated with cutouts of them feasting on our vegetables.
Harry decided to install an electric fence. He placed the wire at a height that would require bodily contact whether they crawled over or under the wire. Those thick fur coats must have provided insulation, for it failed to deter them. Soon our garden was completely devoured. We surrendered.
Then we received a call from our neighbor. She was frantic.
“How did you say we could get rid of those groundhogs?” she asked in desperation. “They are destroying my flowers! They’ve eaten all my chrysanthemums!”
As the saying goes – “It all depends upon whose ox is being gored.”
Perhaps she also realized that an underground system of tunnels was hardly a selling point for a house on the market. Whatever the reason, the groundhog invasion was halted by a couple of “bombs” placed strategically at the entrance of their hideout.
To our surprise, the cucumbers and tomatoes and beans recovered from their assault, growing new leaves and fruit as the summer progressed. The harvest, though not as bountiful as it might have been, was especially appreciated.
Poetic justice!
By Mary Jo Shannon [email protected]
Please let us know what kind of “bomb” you used to get rid of the groundhogs. Is this something that can be bought at perhaps Home Depot or Lowes? Very entertaining article. Thanks