Cap’n Cheeks McSnatch and the Curse of the Empty Burrow

The colony had begun its final preparations for winter. Food was stored. Burrows were cleaned. Beds were padded for the longest naps of the year. Seven months of darkness, dreams and absolutely no intention of answering the door. Everyone was ready for winter.

Everyone except Cap’n Cheeks McSnatch.

“ARRR!”

The shout echoed across the alpine meadow and off the surrounding peaks, startling three pikas, a passing tourist and one particularly judgmental raven.

Cap’n Cheeks McSnatch stood atop a sun warmed boulder, his substantial belly casting a shadow over the grass. His cheek pouches bulged with what appeared to be a combination of acorns, dried grass and something that might once have been a granola bar.

He raised one paw dramatically. “Curse be upon me!”

Mossback McGrump, who had been inspecting the burrow entrance for structural weaknesses, closed his eyes. “Oh, for the love of dirt.”

Ol’ Whiskers slowly lifted his head from a comfortable patch of grass. “Back when the hills were flat, there was a pirate marmot who suffered the same fate.”

Nutmeg McChunky waddled closer. “What fate?”

“The Curse of the Empty Burrow.”

Nutmeg gasped. “Is that when your burrow is empty?”

Ol’ Whiskers considered this. “Not precisely.”

“Then what’s empty?”

“That,” said Ol’ Whiskers, “is the important part.”

Cheeks leaped from the boulder. Well, technically, he lowered himself from the boulder, rolled approximately six inches and landed with the dignity of a pirate captain who had planned the maneuver.

“Listen well, ye land dwelling scallywags!” he bellowed. “An ancient curse prevents me from enterin’ me winter quarters until I recover the legendary Golden Acorn of Eternal Snacking!”

Mossback opened one eye. “There’s no such thing.”

“Silence, ye doubter of maritime tradition!”

“We live a thousand miles from the nearest ocean.”

“That be no excuse for poor imagination!” Cheeks pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his cheek pouch. It was yellowed, torn and covered in what appeared to be grease stains. He spread it across the ground. A crude map showed a mountain, a stick figure wearing a pirate hat and an enormous circle labeled

X MARKS THE SNACKS

Mossback leaned over. “That’s a grocery receipt.”

“An ancient treasure map!”

“That’s a receipt from the Alpine Gift Shop.”

“Arrr! Ancient treasure map!”

Mossback sighed. “This is why we shouldn’t’ve started this.”

Cheeks ignored him. “According to me sources, the Golden Acorn was forged from the finest gold of a Spanish galleon and filled with the salty riches of seven seas!”

Nutmeg’s eyes widened. “Does it have nuts inside?”

“Of course, ye soft pawed landlubber! It be the Golden Acorn of Eternal Snacking!”

Nutmeg nodded solemnly. “That’s how squirrels do it. They snack eternally. No regular meals.”

Cheeks pointed toward the distant Alpine Visitor Center. “Today, I shall recover the treasure, break the curse and return to me rightful place in the warm embrace o’ me burrow!”

Mossback muttered something about letting natural selection handle it.

And with that, Cap’n Cheeks McSnatch set off toward the Alpine Visitor Center.

 

The Voyage to the Golden Booty

The journey was arduous. Cheeks crossed a patch of gravel. He navigated around a clump of alpine grass. He paused for a snack. Then he paused for another snack because the first snack had apparently reminded him of the second snack.

By the time he reached the vicinity of the Alpine Visitor Center, he had consumed most of his emergency provisions.

Fortunately, he had planned for this. Unfortunately, his plan consisted of eating everything before reaching the destination.

Cheeks crouched behind a rock and surveyed the scene. Tourists wandered about. Cars came and went. Rangers moved through the area with the purposeful expressions of people who had already answered the same question forty-seven times that morning.

Then Cheeks saw it. A snack truck. It had arrived to deliver supplies. The truck’s rear doors opened and a driver began unloading boxes.

Cheeks’ whiskers twitched. His eyes narrowed. His belly rumbled with the unmistakable sound of destiny.

Then the driver carried a bright yellow box toward the building.

Cheeks froze. The box was magnificent. Bright yellow. Rectangular. Substantial. And, most importantly, it appeared to contain an unreasonable quantity of something delicious.

“By the salt soaked whiskers of me ancestors…” Cheeks pressed one paw against his chest. “The Golden Booty! In a golden chest!”

Cheeks watched as the driver disappeared inside with another box. He glanced left. He glanced right. A raven watched him from a nearby railing. The raven appeared to be judging him.

Cheeks glared back. “Mind yer own business, ye feathered tax collector.” Then he marched toward the box.

 

The Treasure Chest of the Seven Seas

The box sat unattended for approximately twelve seconds. For Cap’n Cheeks McSnatch, this was more than enough time. He grabbed the cardboard container with both paws and began dragging it across the pavement.

It was not easy. The box was nearly as large as he was. At one point, Cheeks disappeared completely behind it, leaving only his hindquarters and a determined tail visible.

He grunted. “Arrr… heavy treasure be the finest treasure!”

The box scraped across the ground. A tourist stopped and stared. Cheeks froze. The tourist blinked. Cheeks blinked back. Then, with the speed and subtlety of a heavily loaded wheelbarrow, he dragged the box behind a low rock and began hauling it toward the meadow.

From inside the building, the driver emerged. He looked around. He had delivered supplies to the Alpine Visitor Center for years. He had never before lost an entire box of potato chips. He frowned. Then he looked toward the meadow. He had been warned what can happen if he trusts nature for a moment too long.

Cheeks was already halfway down the slope, dragging the box behind him. The driver stared from the edge of the road. Cheeks stared back. The driver took one step forward. Cheeks dropped flat against the ground. Unfortunately, the box remained upright.

The driver looked at the box. Then at the marmot. Then at the box again. Cheeks slowly placed one paw over his eyes.

The driver shook his head and went back inside. Cheeks waited three seconds. Then resumed dragging.

“Arrr! The sea be dangerous, but the booty be worth it!”

 

The Golden Crisp Booty

By the time Cheeks reached the colony, he was exhausted. His fur was dusty. His cheek pouches were sagging. His dignity had suffered several minor injuries. But the treasure chest remained intact.

He dragged it into the burrow entrance just as the colony was settling down for the night.

Mossback was the first to notice. He opened one eye. Then the other. “What is that?”

Cheeks stood proudly beside the box. “Behold!” He slapped the cardboard with both paws. “The Golden Chest of Eternal Snacking!”

Mossback stared at it. “It’s a box.”

“A treasure chest!”

“It’s yellow.”

“Golden!”

“It’s cardboard.”

“Spanish galleon grade cardboard!”

Nutmeg waddled over and sniffed the box. “Does it have nuts inside?”

Cheeks puffed out his chest. “Nay, young deckhand! It contains the finest golden crisp booty ever plundered from the salty seas!”

He tore open the box. Inside were twenty-four individual bags of classic Lay’s potato chips. Twenty-four golden pouches. Twenty-four portions of salty sea treasure. The colony fell silent. Then Crumbbeard, the quartermaster of Cheeks’ pirate crew, inhaled deeply. His eyes widened. “Classic salt.” He closed his eyes. “Sea air. Sunlight. A hint of fried potato.”

Cheeks nodded gravely. “Aye. The taste of the open ocean.”

Mossback looked into the box. “Those are potato chips.”

“Salty sea snacks!”

“Potato chips.”

“Golden crisp booty!”

“Potato chips.”

Cheeks jabbed a paw toward the box. “Each pouch be a treasure stolen from a Spanish galleon!”

Nutmeg picked up one bag. “Why is the galleon so small?”

“Because it be a miniature galleon.”

“Oh.” Nutmeg considered this. “That’s how squirrels do it. Hard to climb trees with big nuts.”

Cheeks turned to the colony. “Twenty-four golden pouches! Enough rations to feed a small pirate ship!”

Mossback frowned. “Or a marmot colony.”

Cheeks’ eyes gleamed. “ARRR! A communal feast!”

And suddenly, every marmot in the burrow was wide awake.

 

The Feast of the Salty Seas

The next several minutes were a blur of paws, potato chips and increasingly enthusiastic pirate vocabulary. Bags were opened. Chips were distributed.

Crumbbeard organized the rations according to what he described as “a highly sophisticated maritime provisioning system”. This consisted of putting several bags in a pile and standing guard over them.

Pegpaw Pete claimed that one chip was shaped like a wooden leg.

One-Eyed Walnut Jack insisted that a chip resembled his favorite walnut.

Tiny Terror Tumblefur began shouting “AVAST!” at every marmot who attempted to reach the center of the box.

Nutmeg McChunky, who had somehow acquired three bags, was trying to determine whether potato chips could be buried to grow more potato chips.

Cheeks climbed onto the cardboard box. His belly hung over the edge. His whiskers glistened with salt. “Me hearties!” he declared. “Tonight, we feast upon the riches of the seven seas!”

The marmots cheered.

“ARRR!”

“AVAST!”

“MORE CHIPS!”

Mossback sat beside the box, chewing slowly. “This is too salty.”

Cheeks thrust a chip toward him. “Ye need more sea air!”

“I need water.”

“Water be for landlubbers!”

Mossback ate another chip. Then another. He frowned. Then reached for a third.

Cheeks noticed. He smiled. “Arrr. I knew ye had a pirate’s heart.”

“Don’t push it.”

Across the burrow, Nutmeg had placed an empty chip bag on his head. “I am the captain of the potato ship!”

Cheeks regarded him carefully. “Ye be promoted to cabin boy.”

“What’s a cabin?”

“Where ye sleep when ye ain’t stealin’ treasure.”

“Oh,” Nutmeg nodded. “That’s not how squirrels do it.”

The feast continued until the colony’s energy began to wane. One marmot rolled onto his back. Another curled into a ball beside the empty packaging. A third fell asleep with a chip still clutched between its paws. Even Mossback had stopped complaining. He was snoring. Quietly, but unmistakably.

Cheeks surveyed the scene. The curse was broken. The treasure had been recovered. The colony had feasted. He puffed out his chest. “Arrr… another glorious victory for Cap’n Cheeks McSnatch!” Then he yawned. A tremendous yawn, the kind of yawn that began in the belly and traveled all the way to the tips of his whiskers. He climbed down from the cardboard chest. His paws felt heavy. His eyelids drooped. The last thing he remembered was Crumbbeard muttering something about saving the remaining booty for breakfast. Then Cheeks crawled into the burrow.

 

The Curse Is Broken

By nightfall, the colony was asleep. The burrow was warm. The air was still. The last traces of salt and potato drifted through the sleeping chamber.

Cheeks curled into his favorite spot, his belly resting against the empty Lay’s box. He smiled in his sleep. “Arrr… tomorrow, we hunt for the legendary Breakfast of Seven Seas.” Then he immediately fell asleep. And slept. And slept some more.

Outside, the September wind moved through the alpine grass. The first hints of winter whispered across the high country, dusting the high peaks with a thin layer of snow.

Inside, forty marmots dreamed of food, sunshine and the long sleep ahead. And Cap’n Cheeks McSnatch dreamed of oceans, treasure and a second breakfast.

 

The Morning After

The sun rose over the Rocky Mountains. A thin layer of frost shimmered across the meadow. The colony remained silent. Deep inside the burrow, Cheeks stirred. He opened one eye. Then the other. He looked around. The Golden Chest was beneath his belly. Empty.

He frowned. “Arrr… did we find the treasure?”

Mossback, buried beneath a pile of sleeping marmots, opened one eye. “You’re sleeping on it.”

Cheeks looked down. The empty Lay’s box was beneath him. He blinked, then smiled. “Arrr.” He settled back into the cardboard. “A cap’n’s work be never done.”

Mossback closed his eye. “Good.”

Cheeks yawned. “Wake me when the sea be less cold.”

Then he fell back asleep.

The curse was broken. The booty was dealt with. And hibernation had officially begun.

 

A Note from the Real World

International Talk Like a Pirate Day is celebrated every September 19. The marmots, however, have their own seasonal priorities.

As autumn approaches, yellow-bellied marmots prepare for hibernation by building up energy reserves and retreating to their burrows for the winter.

No golden acorns required. Although, judging by Cap’n Cheeks McSnatch’s behavior, a few salty sea snacks probably wouldn’t hurt.

Arrr. Happy Talk Like a Pirate Day!

‍☠️