Read by Matilda Longbottom

As I load the dishwasher, prepping for my morning battle with wiregrass, I glance out the kitchen window. The eternal struggle between that sneaky green invader and me never ends. Stones, mulch—no barrier can stop the relentless march of wiregrass. It’s like an uninvited guest at a party who won’t take the hint.

Just then, a chubby, brown furball with legs that are clearly too short for its ambitions scampers into view. It’s snacking on mulberries from my neighbor’s tree like it’s enjoying a gourmet brunch. The sight is absurd and somehow adorable, like a groundhog trying to audition for a Disney movie. Its nose and feet are nearly black, as if it’s been getting into some mischief. I call my husband, “Keith, come see this!”

Keith, ever the wildlife expert (at least in our yard) looks out and declares, “Oh, that’s a groundhog.”

A groundhog! I instantly wonder if this adorable little pest is planning to munch through my newly planted black-eyed Susans. I silently hope mulberries are his only culinary interest.

When I open the backdoor, our groundhog waddles off with the grace of a sausage rolling downhill, belly nearly dragging on the grass. He vanishes under the shed, through a hole that clearly needs fixing. I shrug and get to work on my eternal wiregrass battle.

Later that day over dinner, I see him again. Keith says, “They’re chubby, aren’t they? Wonder what else they eat.”

I narrow my eyes. “As long as it’s not my flowers, he can eat mulberries to his heart’s content.”

By the next morning, our new friend, whom I have affectionately dubbed Fred, is back at the mulberry buffet. “Fred, you’re welcome to stay,” I think. “But one nibble on my flowers and it’s war.”

In our family, we tend to name the local wildlife. There was Alvin the chipmunk back in Pennsylvania, and Bob the peanut-loving squirrel in Chicago. Naming Fred seems only natural. Besides, it’s not like he’s going to dig an entire family out from under our shed, right?

Wrong. A few weeks later, while enjoying breakfast, I notice Fred is no longer alone. Fred has brought a smaller, equally round companion. “Oops,” I laugh.“Guess Fred is actually Freida.”

But wait. By dinnertime, there are four mini-Freidas. It’s a groundhog baby boom! Our shed has apparently become the maternity ward of groundhogdom. Keith and I joke about putting up a “No Vacancy” sign under the shed, but it’s clear Freida has already set up shop. Her kits are adorable, I’ll admit, but my flowers? They’re now at risk.

At least Freida is a good mom. I watch her one day, twirling like a furry ballerina, discouraging her babies from nursing by turning in circles. The kits get the hint and start scavenging for mulberries. One persistent little guy even gets a gentle nose-bop from Freida. I can’t help but laugh—motherhood, am I right?

As the weeks pass, the young groundhogs grow bolder. They wander closer to the house, too close to my precious flower beds for comfort. I’m out there, clapping my hands and stomping like a crazed cheerleader, chasing them back under the shed. It works, for now.

Then, there’s the hawk. Its cry echoes through the neighborhood, and the young ones scurry to safety. But now, they’ve discovered the gap in the fence, and I fear for my neighbor’s vegetable garden. Goodbye black-eyed Susans, hello groundhog apocalypse.

Keith and I discuss our options. In our state, relocating groundhogs is illegal, and frankly, I’m not interested in harming them. I just want them to move along to someone else’s yard. Preferably someone who doesn’t plant flowers.

By July, one by one, the younglings depart, off to dig up someone else’s lawn, I hope. Freida is the last to go, leaving behind only memories and some suspiciously large holes under the shed. Keith fills them in and barricades the entrance with rocks. Finally, peace returns to the garden. My flowers are safe—at least until the weeds decide to stage their next invasion. ❖

About the author: Sherry Comstock grew up in North Carolina, where she learned the art of gardening from her mother, who shared more than just plants, but also a love of nurturing life in all forms. When she’s not battling groundhogs or wiregrass in her peaceful suburban yard, Sherry enjoys watching the wildlife that makes her garden a regular stop. A Navy veteran and author of “A Crazy Quilt Life”, Sherry lives with her husband in the Piedmont region of North Carolina, where she continues to pass down gardening wisdom to her children and grandchildren.