A couple of weeks ago I saved a groundhog from drowning. I later found out his name was Sidney.
I have an irrationally deep affection for rodents. In fact, if I were to be granted the proverbial three wishes, I’d definitely blow one on conjuring a trained rat as big as a horse — complete with specialty harness, reins, and saddle — so that I could ride around on it and take it places. It’d be just great.
So when I saw a member of Order Rodentia swimming desperate circles around my swimming pool . . . well, I broke my long-standing agreement with myself never to run anywhere and positively flew to his side. And just as I got to him to scoop him out (with a pool net) the exhausted marmot had stopped struggling, floating face-down in the water.
But Sidney’s travail was to have a happy ending. Though he remained motionless on the concrete where I sat him for a solid five minutes, not even bothering to tuck his leg into a more comfortable position, he was at least breathing. I wiped some of the foam off of him (air in the pool filter created a foamy surface which may have actually fooled Sidney into thinking the water was solid ground) and sat by his side lest a dog, fox, or smilodon snatch him up for a treat. I can only imagine how thrilled he was to transition from the terror of almost-drowning to the dread of lying helpless next to a hairless ape not even native to his hemisphere. When he started showing some inkling of getting his energy back, I returned him to the bushes where I knew he had a burrow and he scooted under cover.
He’s fine now, no residual effects, I see him all the time and he shows his gratitude by running away from me as fast as he can. I’m happy to say he hasn’t gone for another swim.
But, and here’s the point I’m getting to, the only reason I was able to play hero to a rotund and tailess rat was because I wasn’t doing what I was supposed to be doing that day. I wasn’t at the computer, writing, blogging, or reviewing. I wasn’t reading. I didn’t go to the library to work, like I told myself I would the night before. I wasn’t even doing any work around the house. Instead, I was taking a break from procrastinating to eat an orange, and the only reason I happened to notice a member of one of my favorite orders of small mammals in trouble was because I was washing my hands at the kitchen sink and chanced to look outside.
A more regimented and focused individual would have been hoisting a sodden and bloated woodchuck corpse from his pool that evening, and wondering just how far he could chuck the woodchuck chuck into the trees. He also would no longer have the pleasure of looking outside and watching Sidney waddle determinedly around the yard on his vegetarian errands. And, as I say, I have an irrationally deep affection for rodents, so a bad end to this particular tale would not have rested as easily with me as it might have another.
Is the moral of the story, then, that slacking off is good? Or that chance rules all? Or, is it perhaps what I secretly suspected all along, that true stories have no moral?
I doubt Sidney cares.
{ 7 comments… read them below or add one }
Kewl.
We have a lot of rabbits this year, they love our lawn clover. We have woodchuck(s) in the neighborhood, but I don’t see them as frequently.
We have a small garden, but I’m not possessive about it. I don’t need it to survive and if the animals want to partake, I let them.
Bill,
So funny to read this since I ha a close encounter of my own this morning with a coyote in my front yard.
We have cats now, but I was a rat owner for years, they are amazing, I too am a fan of all things rodenty and am v. glad your little swimmer pulled through.
The following is true:
Our little garden pond (what gardening places refer to as a “water feature”) is a death-trap for adorable creatures. While it has not yet claimed the backyard’s resident groundhog, I have had the mildly grim responsibility (does the wife EVER have to do this?) of fishing out a juvenile robin, a mole, and – most achingly – the adorable baby rabbit which didn’t seem to mind our gardening in close proximity to it.
“Or that chance rules all? Or, is it perhaps what I secretly suspected all along, that true stories have no moral?” I’m voting yes on both these counts. After all, I’ll go toe-to-toe with you in a sloth and indolence pissing contest!
I don’t know if you want to try to out sloth me Ben, I have a considerable weight advantage to start with — and that really helps with inertia.
I’ve fished numerous dead Disney animals out of the pool in the past, including the adorable baby bunnies you mention. Currently I have a board floating in it as sort of a life preserver, I don’t know if that has any effect but I did see a chipmunk sitting quite calmly on it a few weeks ago and grooming himself.
I had a pet rat for a while too, Hagelrat — they really do make great pets. Not much in the longevity department though.
Animal rescue work is a job for anyone who is truly human – even some non-humans.
Many years ago I lived close enough to work to run home for my lunch break. On the day in question I returned to a howling cat, one who was absolutely trying to tell me something.
I followed him around (couldn’t find the other cat and initially thought that was the ‘problem’)
Finally, out of desperation, I stopped, looked right at the cat and said “you’ll have to show me what the problem is”
He promptly led me off the the bathroom. No, the litter box was nice and clean. No, there was nothing hiding behind the shower curtain.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I caught a hint of movement in the toilet bowl.
I don’t know about you, but in my house, things are not supposed to move around in the toilet bowl.
I approached very cautiously and discovered a Kangaroo rat doing the breaststroke.
The poor little guy was just about finished, but I rescued him in time. He did the same thing as your woodchuck friend – just sat there recovering for a at least fifteen minutes.
I’m guessing your cat was probably disappointed he didn’t get to keep him?
And I will admit that upon first reading through your comment the word KANGAROO registered in big bold letters and I sort of missed ‘rat’ for a split second — and the resulting image pretty much called into question what little I know about you, Steve, and almost everything I know about toilets.