For the last three mornings when I’ve gone to work, the groundhog has been at the entrance to his den. He’s just there waking up, stretching, yawing, and waving “hi” as I go by. He’s a pretty friendly guy. Don’t let anyone else tell you any differently.
All his friends call him Bo.
Someday I think I’m just going to stop in and visit the little guy. I could squeeze into the hole and slither slowly to his den. They’re probably not used to company, but it would be hospitable of him to dig the place out until I can sit comfortably.
He could serve tea and maybe assorted insects or something. We would chat about construction going on in the area and the seeming endless supply of excess dirt that public works seems to have. I’d pat the little guy on the shoulder and invite him to my place sometime.
On my day off, I could wake up early and join him at his tunnel entrance to sit and watch the morning traffic go by. We laugh at the people driving motorcycles in the rain, or share a coughing fit as a big rig drove by spewing out noxious, black fumes. After rush hour, we would head to Dunkin Donuts for some hot chocolate. I get to drive, though.