William Marvel: Woodchuck Wanda

I stopped hunting 50 years ago because I dislike killing innocent animals, but I make exceptions for varmints, and especially rodents. Dave Nichols had a perennial woodchuck problem on his farm, so when I worked for him in 1975, I carried a .22 pistol while driving his tractor. One day, I saw a woodchuck brazenly watching me from about 50 yards away, and to my surprise as much as his I dropped him with a snap shot. Dave had mentioned a maternal ancestor who used to make a tasty woodchuck stew, so I brought the carcass back to the farmhouse, only to find that Mrs. Nichols did not favor that recipe. By emphatic instruction, I threw the deceased over the stone wall.

My wife dreams of living off the land. She gleans her breakfast greens from the yard and forages wild berries all over town. Her garden plots are numbered or named, and Gardens No. 1 and 2 are fenced against deer. Unfortunately, the fencing was no impediment to what we called Mr. Woodchuck, who burrowed under it and came up near the beans and strawberries. Every time a strawberry turned a little pink, it would disappear. Every squash, bean, cabbage and pea plant was reduced to a stub as soon as it sprouted a succulent shoot. Before the tomatoes even ripened, each of them showed signs of voracious gnawing.