If you had asked me on Friday if I hated groundhogs, I would have answered: "No. That's silly."
Ask me today, though, and I would have to say "Yes. Yes, I do hate groundhogs."
My family was not savaged by groundhogs over the weekend, nor did groundhogs set fire to my new house, nor did they establish a secret cabal to drive speculation in oil futures. Nothing of the sort.
In fact, my entire gripe with the down side of groundhogs, which consists of them digging large holes under buildings and in other annoying places, hasn't been an issue for several years. On an overall lifetime tally, I'm even considerably up on them:
So why do I now say that I hate them?
This weekend, we were zipping along a back road near the new house. A groundhog plodded along in the opposite lane. There was no oncoming traffic. I experienced a strong desire to veer onto the other side of the road and plow the chubby critter into the pavement. In cold blood. I've walked a mile to toss a snake into the woods away from houses just so I don't have to kill it. I've been sad (sniff) at the death of a freaking pet parakeet. But for the woodchuck? Nothing.
And that's how I know I hate groundhogs.