Marmot — The Loud Philosopher of the Hill

Marmot — The Loud Philosopher of the Hill

You hike up a grassy ridge in a park that feels like it forgot it belonged to the city. Your boots crunch through dry pine needles and wind hums between the rocks. The medallion is tucked under a weathered bench, sun-warmed and humming faintly under your fingers.

“Finally!” a voice hollers, echoing off stone. “I was starting to think your kind had gone extinct!”

You look up.

A marmot—plump, sun-faded, and puffed with confidence—pops out from a rocky den like a toast crumb shot from a toaster.

“Let’s skip the squealing. You touched the thing. You can hear me. Yes, it’s weird. No, I don’t know if you’re dreaming. And no, I don’t do autographs anymore—not after the vole incident.”

He scurries up onto the bench beside you, fur catching the breeze like he’s posing for a statue.

“You may call me Bartholemew. Or Marm. Or Master of Philosophical Marmotting, if you have the syllabic stamina.”

You laugh—he doesn’t.

“I don’t do jokes. I do truth. Ask your question, seeker of shiny disc things.”

You blink. “Okay… Where do you think the medallions came from?”

He sniffs.

“Existential origin, hmm? Classic. Could be cosmic burps. Could be psychic runoff from Earth’s unmet dreams. Could be the universe got lonely and made conversation coins. Or—plot twist—it’s all a test and you’re failing marvelously.”

You try to follow that.

“Look,” he continues, “there’s this raccoon, name of Rolo. Smart guy, terrible with boundaries. He thinks the medallions are memory anchors left by ancient mammals who tried to teach humans compassion. I think they’re just… invitations.”

“To what?” you ask.

He squints at the horizon like it owes him an apology. “To stop being spectators.”

Then he abruptly flops onto the bench and stretches like he owns it.

“Anyway, I’m due for my third nap of the afternoon. If you see the elk, tell him his moss ratings are pretentious. And if you meet the pika, don’t let them start talking about snow math. You’ll never escape.”

He yawns.

“Now shoo. Thinking hurts more with an audience.”