The other Phil gave him the opportunity of a lifetime. He’d never driven a truck before. His legs didn’t reach the pedals, his forepaws barely held the wheel. Still, he led the police a merry chase.
“Don’t drive angry,” Phil told him. The human who’d liberated him--as he had liberated Phil.
The chase ended in a quarry. Phil had removed him, set him to one side. He revved the engine. “We mustn’t keep our public waiting,” he said, eyes raw, realisation not yet set in. “It’s showtime, Phil.”
He played chicken, swerved off the ledge and into the pit. End over end, the truck dropped.
After nine dozen years of predictions the groundhog’s umpteenth death loomed in shale. Nanoseconds before impact he blinked . . . and shifted. Driving had been an interesting experience but there was so much else to see and do.
Another six weeks of winter, then. Just to see what was out there.
As for the other Phil, here their paths diverged. He’d still not learned life’s lesson but that was okay. He had time.
Straddling realities, hunting new kicks, the groundhog’s day continued.
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