Mountains and mole hills...

I really don't spend a lot of time working on my lawn. Anything growing out there that is some shade of green is pretty much alright with me. And dandelions are mostly green, after they go to seed, anyway. So we mow it about once a week and other than that it's on its own.

I have taken to spreading grub killer on it every spring, though. It's not that I really have anything against grubs, but they seem to attract moles, and moles have the nasty habit of making mountains of dirt that make an awful mess for my wife to clean up when she hits them with the lawnmower. And it worked for the last couple of years.

But this year, things aren't working out so well. Either the grub killer wasn't as good, or the grubs have developed a resistance to it, or the moles are simply bringing in their lunch. At any rate, as our front yard began to look like an old fashioned hog lot, I decided an alternate plan might be needed.

I tried stalking the moles with a shovel, a pitchfork, and a pointy stick. I'm convinced I now have one of the best aerated lawns in the county. As near as I can tell, apparently moles love well aerated lawns.

I bought some gas bombs down at the hardware store. They kind of look like a giant firecracker. The package says that if you light the fuse, and stuff it down in the mole hill, and then run away as fast as you can, the smoke from it will kill the moles. I can testify that I about had a heart attack trying to run away as fast as I could. It didn't seem to have the same effect on the mole, though.

Last Saturday, while I was loading the dirt from the new mole hills into the wheelbarrow in preparation for the weekly mowing, I saw a new mole hill forming not five feet in front of me. I found the devil-may-care boldness of this particular mole infuriating. I glanced momentarily at the shovel I held in my hands, and then tossed it aside, opting instead to retreat to the garage to return with more formidable weapons.

After emptying a full 9mm clip into the hill, I lit a gas bomb, stuffed it down into the bullet riddled mound of dirt, and ran away as fast as I could, as instructed by the message on the package.

Upon reaching what I thought was a safe distance from the epicenter of the battle, I stopped and turned around, fully expecting to see a wounded mole, clawing his way to the surface, and gasping for his last breath.

Instead, he was resting atop a neighboring hill, smoking that gas bomb like a cheap cigar.

I guess he counted the shots.

So, I think we'll just mow around the dirt. It really doesn't look that bad. Especially if you drive by real fast. And look the other direction.

And we like to hang out in the back yard anyway.