Love on the rocks: Marmot friend adds warmth to early morning walks
I’m smitten with a marmot.
My compulsive morning walking routine once consisted of 3 miles each day. No stops. Get it done. Get home. That all changed when I met Buddy. Squatted on a rock beside the road on a chilly spring day, he flashed an amorous glance in my direction. Barely breaking stride, I responded with a hasty, “Tsk, tsk, tsk … Hi, little guy,” and continued on down the street. When I circled back, he was still there.
His beady eyes met mine and I was a goner.
The next morning, I took a few pictures of my adorable admirer. He seemed delighted to see me as he primped and posed from his hillside perch. Astonished by his trust, I inched forward. When I got too close, with a sprightly chirp, he scurried down the slope. Curious, I peered over the ledge and watched as a bushel of bustling marmots scampered across the rocks. Tiny heads popped in and out of camouflaged crevices as they played a spirited game of hide and seek. Back at home, I shared precious photos of the roadside marmot with my teenage daughter. “Awhhh. He’s so cute,” she said.
Together, we named my new friend Buddy.
Four years later, Buddy and I are still seeing each other. A handsome fellow, his plump body is blanketed in a brownish fur coat speckled with hints of gray. That distinguished look is enhanced by a band of white streaked across the top of his snout. Ours is an on-again, off-again type of affair. Spooked by speedy drivers and dog walkers, Buddy is a free spirit who often vanishes for days on end. Like a lovesick schoolgirl, I miss him when he is away. A reward waiting at the midway point of an otherwise mundane walk, he has become as essential to my early morning ritual as that first cup of coffee.
But, could there be something more going on here?
Perhaps my fixation on this hunky marmot is a golden-aged attempt to recapture the thrill of those youthful dating years … a late-life crisis of sorts. Could it be, Buddy represents that ideal man I am no longer able to attract? Rugged. Charismatic. Elusive. Mysterious. I’ll admit there are a couple of flaws in this theory. For one thing, I’m not even entirely certain Buddy is a male. It’s not like he wears an XY stamped across his backside. Also, my quintessential mate should at least be human, right? Imagine that salacious newspaper headline: “Senior Lady Courts Marmot 50 Years Her Junior.”
Scandalous!
Even my husband Mark has jumped aboard the Buddy bandwagon. “Did you see your little friend?” he’ll ask, when I walk in the door. While I spend mornings immersed in this Hallmark Channel animal romance, he offers an open ear to my incessant marmot musings, but has been known to tweak my deepest ground squirrel insecurity with a particularly sensitive question: “How can you tell which one is Buddy?”
How does a mother recognize her own baby? I just know.
Sadly, others are jealous of my portly playmate. Even our tabby cat Sunny has been struck by the green-eyed monster. As I fawn over pictures of Buddy, she circles nearby sniffing with contempt, her ears helicoptered backward in disgust. Sunny is likely worried about being replaced. The fractious feline has become an orange pain in the fanny of late as she files her sharp claws on couches, traverses kitchen countertops and marks rugs with steamy piles of throw up.
I sure know how to pick them.
A party animal at heart, Buddy hangs with a motley crew. When I slipped him nuts one morning, he showed up with friends the next day. Wild by nature, these bushy-tailed vandals are capable of trashing beautifully landscaped yards with holes and tunnels faster than an exterminator can say, “Punxsutawney Phil.” OK, so no-buddy is perfect. Fat-shamed frequently online, my magnificent marmot has even been labeled as a whistle pig and burrowing rodent.
How audacious!
When the temperatures drop, my morning walks will shift to a cold, steel treadmill in the basement of our home, and Buddy will seek refuge inside his comfy hillside hideaway. For now, he bestows familiar sanctuary and a solid pick-me-up when I’m struggling to understand life or simply having a bad week.
Who could ask for anything more from a friend, furry or human?
Cynthia Reugh can be reached at cynthia13048@gmail.com.