So, I sit here in my burrow, which is interconnected to the homes of my brethren.
Life is good this time of year as there are not as many pesky folks running or cycling over us.
The snow flurries a bit but we aren’t alarmed by it. We were gifted with fur coats after all.
My ancestors spent the winters digging about digging holes and spinning yarns about avoiding hawks and coyotes.
They lived the simple life. Things are a bit drafty now and a little more complex.
At one time, we had master craftsmen amongst us that built elaborate doors for our mounds.
They kept everyone happy as our homes can be a tripping hazard. The buffalo appreciated these doors and thanked us by giving us fuel for our cooking fires.
We are quite forward thinking and we knew a westward expansion was coming. The cows were on the way and the ranchers would need assistance.
So, the reinforced door industry was booming. We needed to keep our homes safe from hooves and alleviate danger.
Skilled labor was in high demand those days. We had already decked our halls.
What did us in we’re those pesky cowboys.
Every time they saw one of us building a door, they would point a stick at us and it would make a loud noise. Instantly, there would be body parts everywhere. Many laughed as they did so, pointing loud sticks every old where.
Those were dark times they called the black death. They called us prairie dogs and discriminated against us without cause. Without representation, we had no recourse.
Our skilled tradesmen died in vast numbers and in a short time, so did the art of door making.
With no doors to cover the entrances to our dwellings, cows, horses, people and everything else tended to fall in our homes and break their legs. It wasn’t our fault.
They shot at us, poisoned us, drowned us, and threw explosives in our homes.
And do we get reparations in exchange?
We get groundhog day.
Marmots, antisocial, unfriendly, overweight curmudgeons that sleep through the winter get a special day. It just isn’t right.
Somehow, they get to choose the weather.
Why just today, I overheard a couple walk by and in whispered tones say we carry “the plague”. I don’t recall ever pointing a stick and splattering body parts everywhere. It was we who suffered so many years ago.
Don’t get me started on otters. There is a stigma on killing them as they are “reincarnated ancestors” of the natives.
Child, please. Let me tell you, we were here when the Bering was crooked. Otters believe in evolution and want to be fish again. Delusional.
You see, we are mound builders, the first rodents in the North American continent. We are fierce, family first, and have a versatile vocabulary.
Our enemy, the black footed ferret is nearly vanquished.
While our cousins, the squirrels have fled to the trees, we are stalwart, proud, and robust.
We are rodentia.
Benjamin, I have your cell phone and all your passwords. You will see more of us.