Dear Punxsatawney Phil…

…I feel I owe you a great deal of apology. Approximately eight weeks ago, I fear I was quite severe with my words toward you, and I do believe that I was wrong for having accused you of deceiving us with what can only be declared now as your rightful prediction of the subsequent weeks of winter that have grieved us all most ardently.

You see, my dear sir, that I had perceived your calculation to be of the most devious and vexing of forecasts, and I pray you will be kind enough to grant me the opportunity to explain in the most sincerest of hopes that you might forgive me for my offense against you and your good name.

As you most certainly remember, Mr. Phil, that on Monday, February 2 – a day observed annually when you are most celebrated – as on most Mondays during this unforgiving winter, there was indeed a snowstorm that stretched across half of the country. We, your faithful followers, were confident that, given the weather, the overcast, and the inches of snow gathering around us, you would naturally predict the early arrival of spring in the absence of your shadow that, according to lore, would have sent you hurrying back into your hideaway beneath the frozen ground while six more weeks of winter would torment us all and deprive us of the coming of spring for longer than we could endure.

And against all propriety in respect to the external circumstances and contrary to the predictions of your fellow groundhogs in nearby regions, you stood your ground and declared your immediate retreat to your subterranean sanctuary, whilst admonishing us to follow your example in kind, in spite of our desperate demand for a proclamation of an emerging and hasty period of unseasonable warmth that would melt our cold hearts once o’er with the accompanying affections of fragrant springtime flowers, rich earth-scented air, and fresh rain.

Upon hearing of your unfortunate finding, I admit, dear sir, that I impolitely and indiscreetly announced to all that you must have been mistaken, or even worse, had explicitly misinformed us, if only to torment our mortal minds, confuse us, and delight in our bewilderment. That, kind sir, would have been most unappealing and would have severely affected our high regard and esteem for you.

And now, as I look back upon the aforementioned eight weeks, I find myself feeling ill at my behavior, my distrust, and my self-indulgent wallowing, as well as my disdain for your (honorable) actions that served only to warn us of an impending period of insufferable discontent.

My dear Mr. Punxsatawney Phil, I beseech you to excuse my inimical and indefensible etiquettes and incorrect conjectures I conferred that may have harmed your reputation and wounded your pride. If only I had listened to your infinite wisdom instead of indulging in the impertinence of the imposition of my own desire for an early spring, ignoring your infallible intuition.

Although it may be too late, and I pray that it might not be so, I hope that you will accept my most heartfelt apology and, when you finally emerge from your hideaway in the ground, you will forgive me of my folly and we shall continue on as good acquaintances, if not good friends. At the very least, Phil, allow me to owe you a Guinness at the tavern of your choosing.

In other words, you were utterly right. I was wicked wrong. So, sorry, dude.

Sincerely, and with the kindest of regards,

Jean Perry

GROUNDHOG

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