The Facts of the Case:

I own a wicker couch with blue and white floral cushions and pillows. This couch sat outside, undisturbed, at my farmhouse on what is colloquially known as the Moonshine Porch. In the spring, I discovered not twenty yards from the porch, a hole in the ground, belonging to a woodchuck and around which was dotted the remnants of cotton batting. In addition, a torn blue and white floral pillowcase, empty of its batting, was discovered strewn to the side of the hole. As they say in the law, res ipsa loquitor, or in layman’s words, the thing speaks for itself.

Exhibit A:

Count 1:

There could be no other explanation but the groundhog, aka, the woodchuck, living in the burrow, climbed first onto my porch, climbed next onto my couch, and absconded with my pillow.

Retaining Counsel:

Given how open and shut this case appears to be, I thought my son Atticus, just finishing his first year of law school, could cut his legal teeth on this lawsuit. I called him up and explained I wanted his assistance going after this woodhog groundchuck jerk who stole my pillow, like a hairy slow-moving Lord Elgin lumbering off with the Greek marbles at the Acropolis, believing he had a right to line the walls of his burrow with my fine cotton batting.

I shouldn’t have been surprised when Atticus, who likes to champion the underdog, took the side of the groundhog.

Pre-trial Conference:

Mithra: I’m sure by now you’ve seen the video.

Atticus: There is nothing but the circumstantial evidence of pillow fabric shoddily scattered about the general vicinity of the woodchuck’s home. Without fingerprints, a DNA match, or an eyewitness to count against him, the woodchuck will walk free. And as to the actual physical presence of cotton batting, my client could have been framed, by a raccoon is my guess.

Mithra: Look, it’s a big deal. I know you’ve got a thing for social justice, but I’ve had that set of antique wicker since I was nineteen. It was a gift from the father of an old boyfriend.

Atticus: Weird.

Mithra: I believe it was intended as a consolation prize for the son breaking my heart.

Atticus: Not sure how that’s even relevant.

Mithra: I’m just saying a jury is going to sympathize with me. First, I get my heart busted by this guy in high school. His dad gives me furniture. And then nearly forty years later, a groundhog desecrates the gift?

Atticus: Sounds like the furniture was just another kind of “dumping.” I don’t think the provenance of the wicker has any bearing.

Mithra: Did I mention the cushions were blue and white chintz? All cotton? Vintage from the early 80s?

Atticus: That sounds chintzy.

Mithra: Whose son are you?

Atticus: To sue the groundhog for nuisance you’d have to show his conduct is both intentional and unreasonable. And he has a good defense: he was there first. Therefore, you are guilty of “coming to the nuisance,” in which case you would have to pay for the reasonable costs of his relocation.

Mithra: Well forget that! On some farms, he’d be a goner by now.

Atticus: Yes, in Tennessee you have the legal right to shoot the groundhog for trespassing on your front porch. That’s what’s called the “King of the Castle” law. In California, it’s called the “Make My Day” law. However, you live in Wisconsin.

Mithra: I’m taking my chances at trial.

Jury Selection:

Judgement:

The groundhog, aka the woodchuck, failed to appear at court, resulting in a default judgment against him. His attorney, Atticus, claims to not know his whereabouts. We are still a family, and someday, I will again bake ginger cookies for Atticus and let him sit on my booby prize wicker couch overlooking the sheep shed. But not just yet.

Photo of groundhog by Abigail Lynn on Unsplash