For most, October 15th is just another crisp autumn day. But for a select, discerning few, it’s a sacred observance: National Grouch Day.
Every colony has one, that one marmot who can turn a perfectly fine morning into a lecture on “why clouds used to be fluffier”. Today, in honor of National Grouch Day, we celebrate them, the unsung heroes of crankiness, the champions of complaints, the marmots who wake up grumpy and stay committed to the role.
In the heart of the Rocky Mountains, there’s a marmot so grumpy, he’s made a career out of scowling at the sun. Meet Old Mossback McGrump, the mountain’s most decorated grouch, a venerable vexed rodent like no other.
Old Mossback isn’t just grumpy. He’s a connoisseur of grumpiness. He doesn’t just tolerate discomfort. He actively cultivates it. His sighs are legendary, capable of rustling distant juniper bushes. His disapproving glares can wilt dandelions at twenty paces. From his perch among lichen-speckled boulders, Old Mossback surveys his domain, a kingdom of silence, wind and things that irritate him.
The Morning Mood Forecast: Cloudy with a 100% Chance of Disapproval
While other marmots greet the sunrise with cheerful chirps, Old Mossback prefers to glare back at the sun, as if the sun itself owes him rent. He starts each day with a heartfelt “hrrrph”, a sound somewhere between a growl and a sigh.
Breakfast is a slow, methodical ordeal. He doesn’t eat his mountain greens. He interrogates them. Each bite is considered, chewed with the deliberation of a seasoned critic at a Michelin-starred restaurant, usually followed by a subtle head shake indicating profound disappointment.
As he lumbers out of his cozy burrow, he’s already compiling a mental list of all the things that are wrong with the world. The sun is too bright, the grass is too green and don’t even get him started on the neighbors, a family of chatty squirrels.
Old Mossback’s day is filled with a series of grumpy accomplishments:
- Grumbling at the tourists who dare to take a selfie with him in the background
- Complaining about the quality of the wildflowers this time of year
- Scolding any young marmot who dares to playfully nibble on his fluffy tail
Burrow Sweet Burrow: The Temple of Discontent
McGrump’s burrow is legendary. Not for comfort, not for design, but for the hand-painted sign out front:
KEEP OUT.
And if you’re already in,
GET OUT.
Young Pip, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, once offered Old Mossback a particularly plump wildflower. “Too much pollen,” Old Mossback rasped, waving a paw dismissively. “Gives me the sneezes. And don’t you dare whistle that cheerful tune near my burrow. It aggravates my … well, everything.”
His preferred social interaction involves staring silently at any marmot who dares approach, until they awkwardly back away, convinced they’ve committed some unspeakable burrow faux pas. This, to Old Mossback, is peak social success.
The Noise Complaint Committee
Old Mossback believes marmots these days have “too many whistles and not enough wisdom”. Whenever the younger ones sound an alarm call for a predator, he pops his head out just to yell, “In my day, we didn’t need to whistle about eagles! We just dodged them!”
He also files formal noise complaints against:
- Wind
- Ravens
- The sound of grass growing
- Pikas breathing “too enthusiastically”
A Love-Hate Relationship with Everything
Ask McGrump what his favorite season is, and he’ll say:
“None. They all have problems.”
Spring? “Too wet.”
Summer? “Too many tourists.”
Autumn? “Leaf clutter.”
Winter? “Don’t get me started on snow.”
But deep down, his fellow marmots know he secretly loves it all. After all, he always takes the best nap spots and mutters the loudest lullabies when it’s time to hibernate.
The Secret Soft Side (Keep It Quiet)
Every grouch has a weakness. For Old Mossback, it’s baby marmots. He’ll grumble the whole time they tumble around him, claiming “I’m only here to make sure they don’t eat my grass,” but then he’ll sneak them a flower head or two when no one’s watching.
And when the little ones fall asleep beside him, he’ll let out a long, slow multi-layered sigh that sounds suspiciously like contentment. And if you think that sounded too sentimental, don’t worry. Old Mossback just rolls over and mutters, “Grass is still too green.”
Moral of the Burrow
On National Grouch Day, we salute Old Mossback McGrump and every marmot, human or otherwise who’s perfected the art of the curmudgeon. Because without the grouches, who would we lovingly irritate?
So here’s to the grumpy ones, the burrow mutterers, the cloud glarers, the marmots who hiss at happiness, but secretly keep us all grounded. So, on this National Grouch Day, take a page out of Old Mossback’s grumpy playbook and complain about something, anything. For in the immortal words of our beloved marmot, “A good grumble is the best medicine.”
May your grass stay dry, your burrow stay quiet and your complaints stay creative.