L’amour d’une marmotte (The love of a groundhog)

He loves me, and I have proof!  No, not the husband (though I’m pretty sure he’s fond of me, too).  MY MARMOTTE (groundhog), Jean-Marc. As many of you know (since Jean-Marc is famous on this continent and known on one or two others), he has emerged from his loooooong winter sleep. He’s half the marmotte he used to be, and I’ve been calling him the yard weasel, because he has a distinctly more weasel-like appearance now that he’s pitifully skinny (instead of the great undulatinig mass of marmotte fat I remember from last fall).  

As a side note, I was chatting with my neighbor the other night (the one in whose yard Jean-Marc lives, so I think of him as le père de Jean-Marc). Can you believe that he and his girlfiend thought Jean-Marc was a GIRL?!?  I had to do some reading to make sure I was right, and short of getting really up close and personal with his nether regions, I can’t be 100% sure, but I read enough to convince me that we’d have seen his babies by now if he was a girl. So anyhow, I disabused the neighbor of that silly notion and taught him Jean-Marc’s real name. The neighbor agreed that Jean-Marc was fitting, and further decided his last name was Tremblay, since every third person in this region is a Tremblay.

But back to the proof that he loves me back (and that it’s not a one-way relationship, making me just some lunatic anglophone who screams at a marmotte in bad-but-improving French)…
I went out the front door yesterday, and it made a pretty loud noise when I closed it behind me. I caught movement out of the corner of my eye, and I saw Jean-Marc scampering for his burrow. (Dude can no-shit SCAMPER now, unlike back in his Jabba the Marmotte days when a vigourous waddle was the best he could do.) I yelled at his skedaddling hindquarters, “Jean-Marc! C’est seulement moi! Nous sommes des amis! C’est correct!” (Jean-Marc! It’s only me! We’re friends! It’s okay!)

The blur of grizzled brown rodent fur disappeared into Jean-Marc’s hole by the neighbor’s shed…but a mere second later, his skinny little yard weasel face popped right back out! He heard my voice during his mad dash for his hole and realized that it was only his VERY BEST FRIEND, not a threat, and he could come back out and eat again! (Which he needs to do, as he’s far more handsome once he puts on a rippling layer of fatty marmotte flesh.)

So yeah, my marmotte knows me and loves me and trusts me to not murder him.  If that’s not a real friendship, I don’t know what is.

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