The Meleagrean Ground Hog . . .

has once again, as of today, emerged from its dark and brooding lair underneath my front porch to ravage the land that is Homo Edax's garden for yet another year. Marigolds, tomatoes, eggplants, peaches, mums, nothing will be safe that might add to the amplitude of this furry monster's girth. And nothing will stop it - not have- a-heart traps, not filling in its hole, not hot pepper spray - nothing, save the heavy steel end of a shovel wielded by the mighty arm of an angry gardener.

This year there is to be no sitting on my flower bed munching day lillies as I weed a mere three feet away; there will be no "morning conversations" with the neighborhood cat; there will be no holding me in contempt, eating in front of me as I sit drinking a cold beer on a hot July afternoon; there will be no sentiment wasted for he is not my friend, not my quasi pet - he is fur, teeth, stomach, claw, and EVIL!

This year there is one thing in store for Sig. Groundhoggio -

Morte. Thanatos. Death.

A bitter Thucydidian reality, but not one that I created. As the Greek tragedians tell us, life is harsh: hapant'epachthei plein theoinesi koiranein, eleutheros gar outis esti plein Dios! Soon, very soon, darkness will cover his eyes - vitaque porcus terrae cum gemitu fugit indignata sub umbras!

HE