It was a Wednesday like any other Wednesday the day our story begins. The sky was veiled in grey and the little marmots and other furry creatures were feeling utterly lethargic, for the cold wind made it very unappealing to partake in any outdoor activities. They sat inside, reading, or working on old knitting projects, occasionally glancing out their foggy windows and sighing audibly as they watched the tree branches swaying frigidly against the drab background.
“Dear, dear. ‘Tis dreadfully dismal, this day of dreary darkness. This dilapidated domicile is dank, the damn darning needs doing and I don’t want to do it!” Proclaimed Grandfather Marmot to his young trophy marmot-wife named Deedee.
“Well,” replied Deedee, “why don’t you leave the darning, find something else to do and stop your bitching!?”
“Well, you see I would, but without mended socks, I will have no padding between my arthritically bumpy feet and my hard unforgiving shoes…my dear.” Said Grandfather Marmot in huffish retort.
This was quite a predicament for Grandfather Marmot. His socks needed darning and it was very slow work for, you see, marmots are one of the least dexterous animals in the whole wood!
Grandfather Marmot wiggled into a more comfortable position in his recliner to begin his darning, when suddenly he heard a knock on the door.
“Well, now who could that be?” wondered Grandfather Marmot out loud to Deedee.
“I don’t know,” replied Deedee suspiciously. “Who would come calling in these horrible conditions, and on darning day!?”
Deedee rose to answer the door after realizing that Grandfather Marmot had no interest in undoing his rather difficult, yet comfortable position in his recliner.
“Hello there.” Said the man at the door. “My name is Mr. Woods. I am looking for a Ms. Deedee Marmotman.”
“Who’s asking?” replied Deedee rather quickly.
“Well I’m Mr. Woods…As I believe I have already stated.”
“Well what do you want with Ms. Marmotman?” asked Deedee.
Mr. Woods did not respond to her question for a few moments. Instead he stuck his hand into one of his pockets and pulled out an old crumpled photograph. He examined the photograph, and after a few moments let his eyes drift up to examine Deedee.
“Ms. Marmotman?” Mr. Woods inquired.
“No….why?” replied Deedee whose left eye had suddenly developed a kind of blinky twitch.
Mr. Woods pointed at her. “Look I know who you are ma’am. There’s no use pretending you don’t know why I’m here.”
Deedee looked Mr. Woods up and down a few times with a strange suspicious fear in her eyes. She scanned him for any sign of a flaw, as if determined to find a reason to deny Mr. Woods continued presence on her doorstep. This was a very difficult task indeed, for Mr. Woods was a very respectably dressed weasel. His navy blue pinstriped suit was completely buttoned, and his pants impeccably pressed. He had even lint rolled his clothes the night before. However, luckily for Deedee, Mr. Woods had just finished turning his compost pile before dressing to come to the Marmots.
Deedee saw a small remnant of his compost turning lurking inconspicuously underneath his outstretched finger.
“That’s one dirty-ass fingernail you’re pointing in my direction Mr. Woods.” Said Deedee with a newly regained sense of calm. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave. Mr. Marmot does not allow visitors on darning day.”
With that she slammed the door briskly in Mr. Woods’s face.
“You may have won this time Deedee Marmotman! But you haven’t seen the last of me!” Yelled Mr. Woods through the crack under the Marmot’s front door. And with that, he turned to leave.