How to humanely manage conflicts with groundhogs

If people spent half as much time learning about groundhogs as they do trying to eliminate them, they might be delighted to see what Susan and Joseph Sam have observed in their Michigan landscape: Groundhogs sleepily emerging after a long winter and eating snow to quench their thirst. Babies who appear to be chatting with their moms. Males playing with young and patrolling territories. Mates foraging together among clover. A “stepfather” taking care of chucklings when their parents disappear.

What observers wouldn’t see, if they coexisted as the Sams do, are the calamities unfairly associated with these misunderstood creatures: collapsed structures, destroyed gardens and a general sense of damage and doom. Rather than eating the Sams’ hostas, the groundhogs lap water from their leaves. When they nibble dahlias, the natural pruning helps the flowers grow more densely. Their burrows are so stable they don’t interfere with the structural integrity of the barn, shed and decks.

“I find that people will blame groundhogs for everything,” says Susan, a visual artist and nature photographer who has spent 21 years documenting groundhog behaviors and humanely excluding them only when necessary. “It seems to me that we have a responsibility to coexist with wildlife,” she says. “Where else are they going to go?”

A frequent answer to that question—“anywhere but here”—is based on lack of knowledge about animals who live mostly underground. “People may not know that groundhogs are primarily vegetarians,” says John Griffin, the Humane Society of the United States’ senior director of urban wildlife. “Or that they’re shy and retiring and actually pretty fearful animals who run away from anything bigger than themselves.” Even their names are confusing: They’re not just ground dwellers; they readily climb trees. They don’t chuck wood; the term “woodchuck” is likely based on sounds of several Native American words. “Whistle-pig” seems most apt, referring to whistling sounds made when alarmed.

In decades of field work, Griffin hasn’t seen significant problems from groundhog digging, even in historic landmarks they’ve inhabited for generations. “If there is an issue, it’s typically a structural problem with the building from the beginning,” he says. “It would take a lot for groundhogs, who are excellent burrow builders, to really undermine a structure.” Groundhogs are careful artisans, including in farm windrows. “Trees aren’t falling down because they’re digging around them,” Griffin notes. “They’re not that kind of a developer, so to speak.”

Though they’re hard to study due to living largely underground, ecological research and the Sams’ observations provide insights. Groundhogs form familial networks and eavesdrop on chipmunks and crows to learn of threats. They’re tidy, cleaning burrows several times a week. They have  winter and summer dens. They engineer good drainage and separate chambers for sleeping, elimination, nursing and turning around. Their burrows shelter foxes, opossums, skunks, turtles and amphibians.

The Sams’ uncommon view—captured through indoor cameras—enhances scientific knowledge about animals once thought to be solitary with no paternal role. Their Facebook page and website, offer creative coexistence strategies. “The babies aren’t going to be traveling far when they first come up,” making the flower patch near their burrow most vulnerable, says Susan. Since groundhogs don’t like climbing unstable structures, “we put a fence around it and make it floppy on top, just like the HSUS recommends.” When new holes are poorly sited, the Sams fill them with rocks. To prevent drainage issues from a hole by their home’s foundation, they covered it with welded metal mesh and stones.

In Delaware, the shed of another groundhog haven remains “totally structurally sound” despite five years of habitation by Instagram celebrity Chunk the Groundhog and subsequent generations, says organic gardener Jeff Permar. Initially dismayed at the sight of nibbled vegetables, Permar caught the culprits on camera, and “it won my heart over eventually, just seeing them every day and the struggles they go through,” he says. “The Chunks” snack on produce left on a tiny picnic table but also forage for clover, alfalfa and veggies in a garden grown just for them.

“They’re always a step ahead of you,” Permar says. “That’s their job, right?” In the main garden, they prune tomato leaves, but cages safeguard central stems. Plastic wrap around stakes protects young cucumbers. “They get the low-hanging fruits and I get the higher stuff,” Permar says. “It’s that coexisting factor. We both win.”

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