Holy Moley

By Chet Berry

Call me Ishmael.

Or call me Chet. I’ll respond to either.

Like Captain Ahab’s search for the allusive Moby Dick, I find myself in a quest for the unseen pest. Moles have invaded my front yard at the farm and I’m not happy about it. “Invasion” is the perfect word to describe my plight. Every morning as I search for focus while drinking my coffee, I count a number of new fortresses as these little buggers continue to dig in. Two mounds become four. Four become eight. Eight…is enough to push me over the edge. My front yard looks like a fleet of tiny Martians have landed and left tiny crop circles.

When we bought the farm six years ago, we signed numerous papers such as a deed, a promissory note, an amortization schedule, proof of insurance, and a certificate of title. I don’t recall signing anything indicating an agreement to provide shelter for woodland creatures. A quick search of the internet provides numerous examples of a “Mole Removal Agreement” form. Those moles, however, are usually indicated by someone saying, “You should probably have someone look at that.”

Making matters worse, we are surrounded by a thousand acres. From my vantage point on the porch, I see acres upon acres of corn and soybeans all planted in perfectly straight rows. Oh, and the ground between those rows does not contain a single weed…or a mole hill.

A quick word of caution: If you’re eating lunch while reading this article, this might be a good place to stop. If you are my sister, go ahead and read further. If you are my niece, you should expect nothing less of me.

Terry Goodkind is quoted as saying, “Knowledge is a weapon. I intend to be formidably armed.” If I am to prevail in this challenge, I need to “think like a gopher”, as stated by Bill Murray. Here are some things I have learned about my nemesis.

a. They have huge front paws and small hind legs. They are digging machines and can tunnel 15’ in an hour.

b. They love worms and grubs as well as any other bug that crosses their path.

c. Moles are not blind. They have eyes, but are nearsighted and may be colorblind.

d. They have no sense of family or connection, so I’ve been told. e. Moles are known to paralyze live worms with the juices in their mouths and store them away for future consumption. How sick is that?

For those who think that I’m “Anti-mole”, I simply counter that I’m “Pro-worm”.

a. Worms don’t eat my grass. They enrich my soil.

b. Worms eat decaying leaves and roots, like civilized animals do.

c. Worms have 5 hearts, because that’s how much they love us.

d. According to Wikipedia, worms have mouths but “no other distinctive facial features”. You’ll never hear someone say, “She looks just like her mother.”

So, what shall I do? Difficult times demand difficult actions. Suffice it to say I won’t be playing whack a mole or using dynamite. A quick search on the internet for a moles natural predator indicates that some dogs, especially terriers, can dig and catch moles. Perhaps our 13-year-old Jack Russell could do something more than worship the ground upon my wife walks, though that would require the instruction of my wife…for my words matter little to the dog.

Ishmael summarizes my plight when he states, “Heaven have mercy on us all – Presbyterians and Pagans alike – for we are all somehow dreadfully cracked about the head, and sadly need mending.” Two questions remain, Who will crack first? and Am I making a mountain out of a mole hill?

The jury’s still out deliberating.

cb