What can you say about a groundhog who dies?

That she was a diva? A hero? That she loved bananas and nipped the mayor?

All of the above.

MANCHESTER — In her three short years at the Lutz Children’s Museum, Molly the groundhog lived like a diva: bananas twice a day, in-season vegetables, and weekly deliveries of fresh fruit from Highland Park Market.

“She was pretty spoiled,” said Lutz Animal Program Coordinator Sarah Wilby, who was one of only a few curators who the groundhog would allow to hold her. “She wanted things when she wanted them in her own way.”

(The Journal Inquirer)

The art of the news obit, no matter who -- or what -- it's about, is to capture the full spectrum of the being. And while it's an assignment that most reporters dislike --- even less so when it's for an animal -- it's an opportunity to paint a larger picture than an average news story, to be a little freer with language. Could a reporter have called Chuckles a diva when she was the state's official groundhog?

I edited the paid obituaries for a while. It became a meditation practice on the buddhanature of all beings. Everyone has enlightened aspects and confused aspects in their lives -- they loved the Red Sox; they name the cats but not the grandkids; they pay to say that they liked to watch "Animal Planet"; they knit sweaters for the kindergartners; they were known for their kielbasa; they loved Frank Sinatra. They touched the patch of world where they walked, even if they never made it out of Stafford. They touched my heart.

Everyone is a walking obituary. Everyone on the street, in the store, in the stadium, has people and things they love, hobbies and quirks, those who predeceased them.

This body will be a corpse. This person is already dead.

This ephermal existence is not to be wasted. Everyone who is born will die. My death is certain; the exact time is unknown. Knowing this, what is most important?