Death of an Unpopular Mole

It began as most wars do – somebody wanted something that somebody else already had. And, like most wars, it paints a tragic picture of hope, desperation, life, death, triumph and utter defeat.

Late last summer, as I dutifully mowed my yard I began to notice what would become my great nemesis…a mole had moved into our backyard. At first I didn't think of it as that big of a deal – it was in a far corner of the yard, practically the neighbor's yard in fact. Contained to this far distant corner, I would of course cuss as I stomped the small hill down each time I mowed, but that's about it. The mole had its world and I had mine. After all, he was there first…right?

You've heard the phrase, "give an inch and they'll take a mile," but never has it applied more aptly than when dealing with moles. Being the new guy in the neighborhood, I was at first hesitant to upset the delicate ecological balance that had no doubt taken hundreds if not thousands of years to create in my neighborhood. I wasn't in the mole fighting business; all I wanted was green grass.

But as late summer turned to early fall, my friend the mole began to interpret my laissez faire attitude as ambivalence towards his actions. So began a full-scale invasion into the green heartland of my backyard. By the time I mowed for the last time, large mounds of dirt and miles of mole trails crossed through my backyard as a sort of demented reminder of who really controlled the yard. And it wasn't me. By regularly packing down all of his hills and trails, I was able to somewhat contain the invasion – if at the very least simply letting him know that his aggression would not stand. However, with the long list of projects I had, there was little I was able to do to stop him. Mole – 1, Doorah – 0.

I'm not sure what moles do in the winter – hibernate, dig deeper holes or perhaps even take off for Arizona. But as with many wars through history, the winter months brought an uneasy truce in the battle. Frozen, snow-covered ground was clearly not the perfect time for mole invasions. But as the snow flew outside and the winter winds pounded our house, I swore an oath – an oath to God, Bill Murray and all the mole-warriors who went before me – I would win this battle.

Spring in Iowa is a time of hope. An opportunity for new beginnings. A chance to clean out the old and start again with a fresh slate. Perhaps I was a bit naïve, but there was a part of me that thought maybe – just maybe – my friend the mole went off to wherever moles go in the winter and didn't come back. I was wrong. We had both obviously spent the winter in our respective corners plotting strategy, mapping attack plans and preparing for the spring campaign. I had thought of several options – poison, traps, bullets, trained attack cats – but for the most part I guess I was taking a "wait and see" attitude towards the spring campaign. After all, I'm a lover – not a fighter. The last thing I really wanted to do was kill one of God's little woodland creatures.

And then it happened. He made the first move on a beautiful Sunday afternoon. I remember it well – my guy had just lost the NASCAR race. Dejected, me and my tortoise-shell cat, Dubya, went out on the balcony to get some fresh air and clear our heads. Dubya loves it out there. She paces around sniffing the air, stalking birds and rolling around. I was looking out into the neighbor's yard when I noticed a change in her mood. Low to the ground, ears peeled back, she was watching something. Following the path of her eyes I looked out into the yard at a mole hill the size of a MLB pitcher's mound. What is more…the hill was getting bigger before our eyes! The mole, brazen and bold, was flaunting his control of the backyard right in front of us! Gone were the days when this mole moved in the cover of darkness. Gone were the days where it stayed in the back of the backyard. Gone were the days where he at least waited until I wasn't looking!

Deep inside me a flicker became a flame that grew into a rage. Dubya, being one-story up on the balcony, was unable to attack. I reached down and patted her on the head – "we'll get him. Don't you worry," I whispered. I had to take action. At first I thought about going for my rifle. A few rounds into the moving mole hill would surely take him out. "Too noisy," I thought. I ran to the garage where I had more options. I reached for my shovel and hatchet. "It's about to get messy," I thought.

Like a puma I crept through the yard and came to a crouched stop one foot in front of the hill. A few seconds later it moved. Without hesitation and with the cool hand of an old-west gunfighter, I struck at the hill with my hatchet. The movement stopped. I struck again and again and again. Optimistically, I dug away a little bit of the mole hill. Nothing. He had escaped – again. I stood up, the muddy hatchet still dangling from my clenched fingers. "It's time to bring the heat," I thought. And when I bring the heat – things melt. Mole – 2, Doorah (and Dubya) – 0.

The next day found me at Lowe's seeking more efficient solutions. Poison, water balloons, traps, agent orange – anything that would make this problem go away. A grandfatherly old man in a red smock pointed me to a bright yellow box. There was no clever name, no snazzy marketing sales message on it; just two words are all that was needed – Mole Trap. Enough said.

To those of you who may have never seen a mole trap – and most of you likely haven't – it was invented in 1263 by an English dungeon master and hasn't been redesigned since. With six 8-inch metal spikes, the mole trap is cold, black, brutal and meant for only one thing – killin'. Just the tool I needed to seriously escalate the Great Mole War to a more savage, perhaps sinister, level. I quickly nicknamed my new tool of war, "the Widow Maker."

For only $14 I drove home, trap in hand, plotting my next move…I packed down all the hills and trails making note of what seemed to be the most active. I gently pressed the metal stakes into the ground, pulled on the spring tension which tightened the trigger and pulled the six metal "spikes of doom" into position. The trap was now set. It was only a matter of time before a cocky, yet unsuspecting mole would surely make his final mistake.

A couple days went by and nothing. Then, on a day like so many others, I came home from work to check my trap. Walking up to it I could see the trail running right up to my trap. In disbelief I stood for a moment…I couldn't believe it. The mole had been there – he'd made his trails – he had clearly even crawled right between my six evil "spikes of doom." Nothing. The trap had not sprung. The mole had won…yet again. Mole – 3, Doorah – 0.

Disillusioned, I took a step back to plan my next move. If I've learned anything in my 29 years, it is that traps need hair triggers. Analyzing my situation, I decided that is what my problem was. After some basic jury-rigging and "special" modifications to the Widow-Maker, it was now better – and more lethal – than ever. I put it back into place, carefully setting the spikes of doom to the "kill" position and walked away.

Throughout the course of history you can point to many examples where one side won all the battles only to lose the war by what strategists call "decapitation" shots. "Shock and awe," if you will. That term was never more literal than what happened the next day. During the course of the day I thought about the Widow Maker often in anticipation of what I might come home to. Pulling into the driveway, I strained my eyes to see if the trap had struck. As I walked towards the trap, I followed a long and winding mole trail. As I came up to it, I could see that the trail came to a stark and abrupt end…right beneath the "spikes of doom."

The rest, as they say, is history. There is no need to elaborate on the sad and gruesome details or talk about how the situation might have been avoided. What is important is that my backyard, my grass and my life are no longer held hostage by the grips of an evil, unrelenting mole. I wiped the Widow Maker clean and carried it to the garage. There it hangs on the wall as a reminder to everyone of the cold, calculating brutality of war and the death of an unpopular mole.

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