Losing to Fat Rats

Sometimes is an interesting word. It's as fleeting and frequent as its usage. Lives change sometimes, and the world will only sometimes notice. I grip the saw's handle tightly as I focus my strength on repeated strokes.
The solace is broken by a woman's voice, "Why are you cutting all the wood?"
I look up at Ashley; she seems honestly perplexed by what I'm doing. I take a moment to think about her question. Why have I been sawing log after log for at least half an hour? Boredom? Not exactly. Because I enjoy it? Sometimes, but not always, so also not a good answer. My father's instructions still ring clearly in my mind from when I was a young boy; "Be sure to stack it all nicely behind the shed. I don't want the weight of this winter's snow to topple the pile." Ten years later and I'm still capable of building a beautiful stack of wood. But this answer seems a bit too long winded to recite to a girl I barely know.
Finishing the cut on which I had been working, I grab the two fresh pieces of wood and walk over to my stack before turning to face Ashley. "Have you ever just felt like doing something?"
She knows that I'm dumbing down my answer for her. "No. Please explain."
"Well, the temperature is finally nice, and I can tell that the mosquitoes are going to be hitting us hard tomorrow, so now seems like the perfect time to prepare the wood."
Eyeing me while nodding her head, she takes a sip of her beer and turns back toward the fire. My answer must have seemed satisfactory.
By the time Chris returns from the throne, I'm cutting up the last log. I can hear his footsteps slow atop the millions of pine needles as he nears my glorious pile of wood. Before he chooses to say anything he settles by the fire as well. "Dallin, you're making us look bad."
As I finish the cut, I look up to say, "Nah, I figure we're even after you guys having to wake me up every morning."
Ash pulls a few pieces off the pile as I finally take my spot on the north side of the fire. We've had a difficult day on the mountain, and we happily allow the crackling fire to fill our void of conversation. The toenails peeking through the front ends of my flip flops are in need of a wash. Sighing in exasperation, I remove my right flip flop to examine the damage done today. It's been chewed to hell by those damn marmots. I can hear them squeaking in the distance, perhaps already planning tomorrow's raid.
"The marmots are coming for their revenge," Chris mumbles mostly to himself.
Some of our expensive equipment had been damaged the previous day by the giant rodents, and when they came a bit too close to our camp last night we chased them off with human ingenuity and big clubs. We haven't seen them since our reprisal, but more things were damaged today - including my sandals - and now we hear them squeaking incessantly just out of view. It's nerve wracking.
"If they were going to seek revenge they would have come for you while you were on the throne."
Glancing up at my unexpected reply, Chris grunts, "Yeah, I suppose you're right. No time more vulnerable than that."
"Or when we're sleeping," Ashley chimes in.
I tune in again to the crackling fire. I can still hear the marmots through the trees sometimes.