The Groundhog Rescuer
Sitting at my desk, I can glance up and see out a window overlooking an open field. I often enjoy watching groundhogs and birds romping around.
But not this Wednesday.
As the afternoon slump began to set in, I stretched and looked around. Two men (maybe 40-50 years old) were riding a golf cart through the field, which is not an unusual sight. Then they stopped, cart butted up against the fence, just behind the dumpster.
I was bored; I was intrigued. What were they doing?
It only took me a moment to realize what was going on: they had a groundhog pinned while one threw rocks and the other smacked at it with a stick. 
“They’re beating a groundhog!” I shouted, catching the attention of my three neighboring coworkers. “I wonder how fast I can get out there.”
I leaped to my feet, ran down the hallway, out the door, down the steps, out the next door, and continued toward the fence.
“Excuse me!” I shouted, getting no response.
I clapped my hands, as you might have to get the attention of a stray animal. I finally got a look. They began to meander on their way, but I was not finished.
My heart was pounding.
“What is your problem? Do you honestly have nothing better to do that pick on something barely 1/100 of your size?”
Silence. One man shrugged. One gave me the creepiest smile that I have ever seen in person.
They finally began driving away, but were moving at a speed that told me they were interested in coming back. I stood statuesque, hand on hips, and stared. They stopped and turned around to see if I was still there. And finally, the *!@#$!s drove off.
I walked over to where the groundhog hand last been. He was cowering on the edge of the parking lot, a small thing scared and confused. I waited and watched as he was finally able to run off into the field safely.
I was agitated, shaky, and generally disgusted for the rest of the day. What is wrong with people?
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