No one told us about the prairie dogs

When we told people we were moving to Colorado, EVERYONE warned us about the hail.

They also told us about the snow, the mountains, the outdoor activities, and their favorite restaurants.

But not a single person told us about what has become a central feature of our family life here in Colorado:

The prairie dogs.

They are, and I believe I can say this with full scientific confidence, the cutest and funniest things we have ever seen.

And we see A LOT of them.

Every day, our drive to my girls’ high school takes us east of Peterson Space Force Base, through beautiful rolling hills and out toward the beginning of the Eastern Plains. As we head south, little dirt mounds begin appearing in the fields. Then more mounds. Then more.

Until finally we arrive at an intersection our family has affectionately named Prairie Dog Corner.

Prairie Dog Corner is, without question, the highlight of our commute.

Because sitting on or near almost every one of the dozens of mounds is the roundest, cutest little prairie dog you’ve ever seen.

They run around.

They stand up.

They sit back on their haunches and let their bellies pooch out like tiny furry Buddhas who have recently discovered carbs.

Sometimes they chase each other.

Sometimes they just stand there staring into the middle distance like perimenopausal women who have forgotten why they walked into the room.

And sometimes - and please prepare yourself emotionally for this - we have seen them touch noses.

Which, viewed from a moving vehicle at approximately 20 miles per hour, looks exactly like prairie dogs kissing.

BE STILL OUR HEARTS.

Do we know anything about prairie dogs?

Absolutely not.

Do we want to?

Nope.

And I cannot emphasize this enough.

We have no desire to learn about their eating habits, breeding habits, social hierarchy, digestive systems, territorial disputes, or hygiene.

Yes, we know they are members of the squirrel family. Already too much information.

If you are currently thinking, Actually, prairie dogs carry—

Stop.

Whatever comes after that sentence, I do not want it.

Diseases? Fleas? Parasites? Peas?

KEEP IT TO YOURSELF.

We are operating under a strict Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell policy with Prairie Dog Corner.

For approximately two minutes every weekday morning, these tiny round citizens scamper around their dirt condos while we squeal over them and worry that they are getting too close to the road.

And those two minutes are delightful.

Ignorance is bliss, and I think we can all agree that being informed about the world has felt fairly exhausting lately.

Please allow us our emotional-support rodents.

Thank you.

I should probably explain, however, why I am especially invested in the prairie dogs staying away from the road.

Because this is not my first experience enjoying adorable wildlife with children during the morning school commute.

Years ago, when my oldest kids were still under ten, I drove them, and an adorable neighbor girl, to school every morning.

There was one stretch of road where traffic was always horrendous. One morning it was especially bad. Stop. Go. Stop. Go. Inch forward twelve feet. Stop again. Contemplate abandoning the vehicle and beginning a new life in the median.

The kids were also particularly ornery that morning.

So imagine my delight when, while sitting in traffic, I looked out my driver’s-side window and spotted a young deer peacefully nibbling grass on the other side of the road.

Ah.

Nature.

Here was my chance to turn things around.

“Look, kids!” I said brightly. “There’s a deer!”

Every head turned left.

And together, the children made that universal small-child sound of wonder:

“Awwwwwwww.”

For one brief, shining moment, I had done it.

Motherhood.

I was connecting children to nature.

We were noticing beauty.

We were probably three seconds away from breaking into song.

And then a car farther ahead revved its engine.

The deer startled.

It leapt into the air.

And at the EXACT SAME MOMENT, the car directly in front of us accelerated.

Every young eyeball in my van watched as the deer sailed directly into the hood of that car.

Not just hit the car.

No.

The impact launched the deer approximately ten feet into the air, where it traveled in a graceful rainbow arc, all four legs flailing, across our entire field of vision before landing on the side of the road.

Right next to our van. Clearly now deceased. 

The children screamed.

I screamed internally.

And somewhere, the patron saint of slapstick whispered,

“Perfect timing.”

Because had I been directing a comedy, I could not have staged it better.

Except for, obviously, the deer.

There are parenting moments you prepare for.

Tantrums. Picky eating. Sibling rivalry. Bedtime battles.

But nobody gives you a chapter called “What to Say When the Adorable Animal You Just Pointed Out to the Carpool Is Immediately Killed in Front of Everyone.”

So I did what generations of mothers before me have done when faced with a situation for which there is absolutely no appropriate response.

I turned on the radio.

And we drove the rest of the way to school in morose silence.

Which brings us back to Prairie Dog Corner.

Every morning, we admire our tiny Colorado friends.

We comment on their roundness.

We monitor the nose-kissing situation.

We speculate wildly about their personal lives while refusing to learn a single verifiable fact about them.

And whenever one wanders a little too close to the pavement, three Morgan women immediately begin shouting from inside the car:

“NO, MA’AM!”

We know how this story can end.

So run free, little prairie dogs.

Scamper.

Stand up.

Let your bellies hang out.

Kiss your little prairie-dog friends.

Live your adorable, fact-free lives.

But for the love of everything holy,

stay off the road.