A mole is tearing apart my yard. He has dug an intricate system of tunnels through my flower beds and lawn. I am quite certain he has extended on open invitation to several relatives to visit his underground labyrinth indefinitely. This rodent community is thoroughly and methodically destroying my landscape.
Still, I hesitate to kill the little bastard, or bastards as the case may be. I made a trip to my local hardware store and surveyed the wide array of rodent-killing devices—poisons, hinged traps, trick boxes of doom. There is even a hose type contraption that you hook up to the exhaust of your car and gas the little buggers.
I feel like a hypocrite. After all, I am an omnivore; I eat chicken and beef and fish. I once watched a show which detailed how cows were slaughtered. These big delicious beasts did nothing to me, but that never stopped me from eating cheese burgers. Someone killed these creatures for my taste-bud enjoyment; plus, I have an assortment of leather shoes. Again, an animal had to be sacrificed for my wardrobe versatility. This mole has been an annoying little asshole; yet, I waver when plotting my assassination attempt.
After much contemplation in the aisle at the hardware store, I chose poisonous grub worms, which are not actually real worms, but more of a chemically-laced gummy bear in the shape of a caterpillar. I decided that if someone wanted to do away with me, I would rather have a tasty meal and wither slowly than be clamped in half with a guillotine-type device. I followed the directions on the package and planted the poison at the threshold of the moles house. But, I awoke Saturday morning to four fresh mounds of dirt, and six more on Sunday. The bastard is on to me. He’s not falling for my grub-o-gram. Damn!