Earthhog Ecology

Ohh, how cute. Look at that furry little pillow
Bumping along
Hiding under bush and house
Before returning to the garden to munch again.
Wonder how Groundhog got such a mean and greedy name?

Grr, now I understand. Every seedling I planted
Gone
In a great garden genocide.
Sunflowers, zucchinis, parsley, watermelons.
Even the pepper plants. I thought those were poisonous?!?
Just the basil were spared. An act of grace or simple distaste?

Are we any different? We rumble down our paths
Bumping along
Stopping at restaurant and shop
Before returning home and devouring Gaia’s garden.
Wonder why we’re called humans, not earthhogs.

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I wrote this poem after observing how I went from wanting to pet our neighborhood groundhog to wanting to ‘git’ it, after it consumed the thirty bucks of seedlings I bought and planted this late spring. In a day, it ate nearly everything, and then the next day came back for the littler seedlings that I had grown from seeds. I visualized returning the favor—making it into a stew to share with the neighbors (who also have been subject to its raiding excursions). But then it dawned on me how we’re not all that different. Humans, like the groundhog, assume all the bounty of Earth is there for them. Why shouldn’t we eat whatever we want? Why shouldn’t we drill it, mine it, rip it up and melt it down. It’s ours to do with what we like.

Without checks and balances—whether governance and community norms or bobcats and fences—species tend to take beyond what’s healthy. Yes, there are exceptions—some, like trees, seem to give far beyond they receive (though some can grow too abundant and disrupt ecosystems in other ways). But every species needs the external limits that keep them in right relationship with the broader ecosystems they’re part of—whether we’re talking plants, microbiota, groundhogs, or humans. When those checks and balances are missing, disruptions ensue.

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This morning, just before I sat down to finish writing this reflection, I sat out on my back step to meditate. Here, the only surviving plants I planted grew, including a big patch of parsley. Often, over the past weeks, I thought how lucky I planted a bit of the parsley up here (as the rest was long ago devoured), and no groundhog would be bold enough to come all the way up my back stairs. But wouldn’t you know, as I sat silently on the top landing, who do I see but Groundhog.

He poked his head over the first step, and hopped up a few steps. He paused there, rubbing the side of his mouth against a step—like a cat marking its territory. Then he hopped up some more stairs before poking his head over the final step to the landing where the parsley grows (just a step below the landing I was sitting on). Still, he hadn’t noticed my unmoving form. Before he shuffled any farther, I said in my lowest voice “It’s not for you,” and off Groundhog ran back down the stairs. Will he heed that mysterious voice? Or will he come again? It’d sure be nice if a mysterious voice reminded us of our limits—but would we listen? Or come test the boundaries again and again until eventually all of nature’s bounty was gone?