I’m not sure what the horrible beast was doing on my back porch in the middle of winter. There was still snow on the ground, and I figured it must be sick in some fashion to have come out of hibernation.
Even for a ground grizzly it was acting aggressive chattering at me when I opened the door from underneath the bench where it was hanging out.
I went downstairs and unlocked the door to my newly constructed gun closet. The immediate problem was of course the fact that the thing was on the porch. Extreme firepower aimed at the house was not a good idea.
After staring at the various weaponry in the closet, I grabbed my golf bag. There is a perfect club for every shot. I briefly considered my “MCGinty” 7 wood, but ultimately went with the sand wedge. The heavy head and extreme angle of the loft felt comforting. I figured I’d use that to poke it out from under the bench. Maybe if I got lucky I’d be able to whack it with it.
Next up I selected my compound bow. At this close range I opted for a field point instead of a razor tipped broad head. I grabbed three arrows and attached them to the quiver on the bow.
After pausing for a moment, I made a difficult decision. I unlocked my new ammo safe and removed my Firestar 9mm and a clip of 8 bullets. Putting on my shoulder holster, I felt that I was adequately prepared.
I opened the back door and immediately the chattering began. I pulled out my digital camera and snapped off a shot for posterity. Whatever happened now, there would be a record.
“Come after me again, you little furry fuck,” I mumbled as I crouched down contemplating my first move.
I kind of almost had a bowshot between the bench and the side of the house. Almost.
I poked at it with the golf club a little bit, and it chattered even more loudly and made a couple of feinting rushes. It moved a little bit and I decided I could now shoot it with an arrow.
I pulled one out of the quiver, knocked it and drew a bead. I breathed slowly and deeply, not aiming, but looking for the shot. I began to relax and in my brain I slowly repeated my Zen archer’s mantra “The arrow must fly. The arrow must fly,” waiting for the moment it must, and that moment quickly grew.
The Groundhog must have sensed it as well, because it chose that moment to charge.
I fired wildly, dropped my weapon faster than a Frenchman and still dressed in my suit, I dived over the railing to escape the charging rodent.
A moment later after picking myself up, I observed the groundhog had retreated back underneath the bench.
“Oh you’re going to die for that,” I promised.
Keeping my escape routes open I got back on the porch to contemplate my next move. Probably I oughta just empty my Firestar in the Marmot’s general direction, hose off the remainder and patch the holes in the deck with the wood filler.
I thought about getting the power washer. At its highest setting it shoots a thin rail of water that will flense the skin off your bones, cut wood, and etch metal. I could cut the sucker in half. It would be a lot of work though, and maybe too cold to run a hose. Plus, the stream from the washer would do a lot of damage to whatever else it hit at that intensity.
Then I had an idea, that gave me misgivings even before I finished thinking it. The bench was long. I could stand on this end of the bench, walk down until I was above the groundhog. I would be safe out of his range, but he would be looking up at me. His neck would be like a tee, his head like a Titleist DT90. Just swing normally like knocking a ball out of a sandtrap and I’k kill the critter, maybe take its head off.
The problem I felt was what I would do if the groundhog tried to attack. I think I’d be safe, but it might startle me and scare me so much that I’d inadvetrtently fall off the bench and then the horrid beast would be all over me with those sharp digging claws and snickety snackerty teeth.
“I will just have to use my willpower and not be scared,” I decided. Club in hand I mounted the bench.
Slowly foot by foot I inched down the bench. The beast would look at me, chatter, and then look away. I wished I could just shoot the thing. I’d stop while it chattered, wait for it to settle down, and then advance again.
Eventually I was directly over the monster and it stared straight up at me with venomous hatred just as I imagined. Slowly I turned and set my stance.
God oh God, why didn’t I take some practice swings first?
I envisioned connecting with the back of its ear as it faced me and lifted my club taking a few hesitant backswings. Nice and easy, let the club do the work, swing natural, swing through the gopher, remember your follow through. I wanted to close my eyes.
Here it goes. I kept my eyes focused on the ear, backswing, extend, pivot hips, wrists cocked, and now the swing. Hips, arms, wrists, body, I let the club unwind in a perfect arc as I stared at those hateful little eyes.
THUNK!
The concussion was much more than a golf ball, as I connected solidly. It felt like hitting a ball really fat, you know, the kind that digs a furrow in the ground.
The groundhog flew about two feet through the air, landed with a solid thud, spasmed for about ten second and then went still in a puddle of blood. I’d pulped it’s head.
I took another picture.
“Don’t lose your head.” “Hole in one.” “Hated to do it, but you really teed me off.” I thought of these and other pithy sayings. If this were a movie what would Bruce Willis say. Finally I decided. I walked up to the dead animal, looked down at it and said…
“Fooooorrrrreee!”
Then I went up to garage and cleaned up my club.
