If you are a sheep farmer, you know that the lambs are here and coming, dropped into an inhospitable world. Other species give birth as well. I’ll never forget watching a calf being born during a February snow storm and finally dropping into a lanky, steaming pile atop frozen mud.
(Happy !#@%* Birthday...)
In fact, the groundhog sticks his head out of the burrow around this time because he's looking for love. He needs locate the nearby ladies and to size up the competition. The young (called pups) will be born later, when there's plenty of yummy green stuff growing.
Although I know they can be a menace to equipment and livestock, I can't help but like them. It's interesting to watch these chubby critters in high summer, roly-poly butts trundling between fields, or standing up, on the lookout, sounding the shrill warning which gives them the name "Whistlepig." Groundhogs are fierce fighters, to which many a bloody-faced dog of my fifties childhood could attest. They are also dedicated parents and excellent housekeepers, carpeting their dens with leaves, and keeping both a summer den—sometimes tucked under an old barn or shed—and a safer winter den for hibernation, in the woods or in a hedgerow between fields.