Frank is a groundhog.
All groundhogs are Franks.
Frank, in various manifestations of size and gender, has plagued me since my beginning days as a gardener - except for the gardening I did entirely in containers on the second floor balcony of that apartment complex. Even then, I'm sure there was a Frank or two, rubbing his meaty little paws together while staring upwards and formulating a plan.
But really, all this humanization of animals does nature no justice. Groundhogs are not evil, conniving wizards. They are simply hungry little rodents with somewhat magical powers. For example, I believe groundhogs are capable of completely dissolving their skeletal systems at will so as to shimmy under a 2 inch fence gap, Mission Impossible style. They also have some sort of otherworldly endless appetite. I'm amazed by their ability to settle into a nice dining experience in the grassy fields next to a 65 mile an hour highway, completely oblivious to the rattling earth and rushing wind caused by passing 18 wheelers. However, should I even step out of my back door when a Frank is busily snacking on my weedy lawn, he shoots me the "whatchoo talkin' bout Willis?" suspicious one-eyed stare, and then he waddles off at top speed into the woods. Historically, all of my past Franks seem to prefer take their chances facing off with a truck rather than dealing with me. Look out boys, that crazy bitch is out again! The most impressive and newest stunt I've seen was just today when I watched him scrabble 40 feet up the mulberry tree with an almost bored self-confidence. I could practically see him peeling off his furry skin to reveal the spiderman suit underneath.
You see, I have a love/hate relationship with Frank that stems from my daily dealings with humans. I am nice. Too nice. I am nice to store clerks, customer service agents, and even (gasp!) medical claims specialists. I wind up being a repressed pent-up stew of anger and resentment. And then an innocent Frank crosses my line of sight, meandering about the yard nibbling on this flower or that weed. Aha! Got him! I tear out of the house screaming and brandishing kitchen utensils, with the fury of a thousand unpaid medical bills and bad customer service incidents, and shout "FRANK! YOU FAT BASTARD, YOU GET THE HELL OUT OF MY GARDEN!!!". And poor Frank does one of those cartoon poses where the shocked animal leaps straight up into the air in fear and starts running in place before his little paws even hit the ground. As he flops into the woods as if being chased by satan himself, I smile and let out a little sigh of relief. Ah, that felt good. Think I'll get more coffee.
Around this time of year, Tom and I start referring to Frank as though he is a family member. "I saw Frank at the swing set today" or "Frank seems to prefer the baby squash to the baby cucumbers." This is also around the same time that our friends and family start to consider us clinically insane. "Why don't you just get rid of him?" they ask, and immediately start offering up their personal cache of weapons from poison, to traps, to pellet guns and beyond. But I always turn them down. Why? Three reasons.
#1.) What would you have me do instead? Unleash my anger out on the humans who actually inspire it? Lose my insurance coverage because of the string of expletives I used on the Horizon rep after calling my fourth 800 number to be told "we don't handle that"? Pull a hammer out of my diaper bag and matter-of-factly smash to bits the device my clerk is too busy OMG!!!ing on to ring me up? Trust me people. The world is better off with me as the crazy lady running around my yard chastising rodents, than with me as the crazy lady running around Michael's chasing down store clerks shouting "What do you MEAN it shows 17 in stock but they are on the truck??? They were still on the truck last week! Where is this truck? Does it ever stop driving? Does WONDER WOMAN drive this truck? AM I THE ONLY SANE PERSON IN THIS PLACE???" And so on.
#2) Sure, I could off Frank. But Franks are like gray hairs - you pull one, five more come back in it's place. Maybe not in Frank format. Maybe they reappear as deer, rabbits, moles or squirrels. Don't even get me started on the countless bugs and diseases. My point is, if mother nature has some sort of cosmic judicial system, the void of one murdered Frank is sensed by the hungry deer on the prowl for beautiful hosta leaves, or that fleet of Japanese beetles that just hatched from your neighbor's lawn. You're surrounded. Just put the weapon down, and back away slowly.
But let's say you keep your gun and your can of spray and set up shop on the edge of your garden. In the end, you might get more vegetables than I will. But you'll wind up having to do that all day, every day, and what fun is that? Better to just jump in with both feet, and muck around in the yin and the yang of it all with the rest of us - aphids & ladybugs, tomato hornworms & parasitic wasps, groundhogs & anti-groundhog fencing ... or maybe a barky dog. The enemy of my enemy is my friend - if not in global politics, at least in gardening. So for now, I will find ways to use Frank's natural tendencies against him while engaging in my own trifecta of weaponry - menacing looks, degrading insults, and generally scaring the bejeezus out of him whenever possible.
#3.) If I kill him, how many hilarious stories will you miss out on in the coming seasons? Ok, maybe they are not that funny, but they are funny to me. Being the star of my own self-deprecating comic melodrama, I need a character who can be the butt of my jokes while accentuating my own neuroses. In other words, if I am the Kathy Griffin of organic gardening, Frank is my tour manager, Tom.
I have a lot more Frank information to share, but for now I'll leave you with this new twist. This year's Frank has a girlfriend Frank, and I'm sure the little Franklets are on their way. Bring it on, Franks! It's going to be a fun summer.
All groundhogs are Franks.
Frank, in various manifestations of size and gender, has plagued me since my beginning days as a gardener - except for the gardening I did entirely in containers on the second floor balcony of that apartment complex. Even then, I'm sure there was a Frank or two, rubbing his meaty little paws together while staring upwards and formulating a plan.
But really, all this humanization of animals does nature no justice. Groundhogs are not evil, conniving wizards. They are simply hungry little rodents with somewhat magical powers. For example, I believe groundhogs are capable of completely dissolving their skeletal systems at will so as to shimmy under a 2 inch fence gap, Mission Impossible style. They also have some sort of otherworldly endless appetite. I'm amazed by their ability to settle into a nice dining experience in the grassy fields next to a 65 mile an hour highway, completely oblivious to the rattling earth and rushing wind caused by passing 18 wheelers. However, should I even step out of my back door when a Frank is busily snacking on my weedy lawn, he shoots me the "whatchoo talkin' bout Willis?" suspicious one-eyed stare, and then he waddles off at top speed into the woods. Historically, all of my past Franks seem to prefer take their chances facing off with a truck rather than dealing with me. Look out boys, that crazy bitch is out again! The most impressive and newest stunt I've seen was just today when I watched him scrabble 40 feet up the mulberry tree with an almost bored self-confidence. I could practically see him peeling off his furry skin to reveal the spiderman suit underneath.
You see, I have a love/hate relationship with Frank that stems from my daily dealings with humans. I am nice. Too nice. I am nice to store clerks, customer service agents, and even (gasp!) medical claims specialists. I wind up being a repressed pent-up stew of anger and resentment. And then an innocent Frank crosses my line of sight, meandering about the yard nibbling on this flower or that weed. Aha! Got him! I tear out of the house screaming and brandishing kitchen utensils, with the fury of a thousand unpaid medical bills and bad customer service incidents, and shout "FRANK! YOU FAT BASTARD, YOU GET THE HELL OUT OF MY GARDEN!!!". And poor Frank does one of those cartoon poses where the shocked animal leaps straight up into the air in fear and starts running in place before his little paws even hit the ground. As he flops into the woods as if being chased by satan himself, I smile and let out a little sigh of relief. Ah, that felt good. Think I'll get more coffee.
Around this time of year, Tom and I start referring to Frank as though he is a family member. "I saw Frank at the swing set today" or "Frank seems to prefer the baby squash to the baby cucumbers." This is also around the same time that our friends and family start to consider us clinically insane. "Why don't you just get rid of him?" they ask, and immediately start offering up their personal cache of weapons from poison, to traps, to pellet guns and beyond. But I always turn them down. Why? Three reasons.
#1.) What would you have me do instead? Unleash my anger out on the humans who actually inspire it? Lose my insurance coverage because of the string of expletives I used on the Horizon rep after calling my fourth 800 number to be told "we don't handle that"? Pull a hammer out of my diaper bag and matter-of-factly smash to bits the device my clerk is too busy OMG!!!ing on to ring me up? Trust me people. The world is better off with me as the crazy lady running around my yard chastising rodents, than with me as the crazy lady running around Michael's chasing down store clerks shouting "What do you MEAN it shows 17 in stock but they are on the truck??? They were still on the truck last week! Where is this truck? Does it ever stop driving? Does WONDER WOMAN drive this truck? AM I THE ONLY SANE PERSON IN THIS PLACE???" And so on.
#2) Sure, I could off Frank. But Franks are like gray hairs - you pull one, five more come back in it's place. Maybe not in Frank format. Maybe they reappear as deer, rabbits, moles or squirrels. Don't even get me started on the countless bugs and diseases. My point is, if mother nature has some sort of cosmic judicial system, the void of one murdered Frank is sensed by the hungry deer on the prowl for beautiful hosta leaves, or that fleet of Japanese beetles that just hatched from your neighbor's lawn. You're surrounded. Just put the weapon down, and back away slowly.
But let's say you keep your gun and your can of spray and set up shop on the edge of your garden. In the end, you might get more vegetables than I will. But you'll wind up having to do that all day, every day, and what fun is that? Better to just jump in with both feet, and muck around in the yin and the yang of it all with the rest of us - aphids & ladybugs, tomato hornworms & parasitic wasps, groundhogs & anti-groundhog fencing ... or maybe a barky dog. The enemy of my enemy is my friend - if not in global politics, at least in gardening. So for now, I will find ways to use Frank's natural tendencies against him while engaging in my own trifecta of weaponry - menacing looks, degrading insults, and generally scaring the bejeezus out of him whenever possible.
#3.) If I kill him, how many hilarious stories will you miss out on in the coming seasons? Ok, maybe they are not that funny, but they are funny to me. Being the star of my own self-deprecating comic melodrama, I need a character who can be the butt of my jokes while accentuating my own neuroses. In other words, if I am the Kathy Griffin of organic gardening, Frank is my tour manager, Tom.
I have a lot more Frank information to share, but for now I'll leave you with this new twist. This year's Frank has a girlfriend Frank, and I'm sure the little Franklets are on their way. Bring it on, Franks! It's going to be a fun summer.
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