I was watching Leave It To Beaver and the conversation goes
Wally) Hey dad where’s the shovel?
Ward) In the garage
June) What do you want the shovel for?
Wally) Me and the Beaver are going to go dig up that gopher
OK now what exactly does this mean? Does this mean there is a dead gopher and they’re going to dig him up? Or do you think it means there is a gopher that is burrowing around the Cleaver’s yard, so Wally and Beaver are going to find his hole and dig into it hoping to find him?
License to kill gophers by the government of the United Nations. Man, free to kill gophers at will. To kill, you must know your enemy, and in this case my enemy is a varmint. And a varmint will never quit - ever. They’re like the Viet Cong - Varmint Cong. So you have to fall back on superior intelligence and superior firepower. And that’s all she wrote.
But yeah, it’s all about getting the golfers out of the yard. You know, when I was a boy…hm? Well yes I actually do have a story. See, when I was a boy, I was the lawn mower man. Mole hills are murder on a lawnmower, especially when the mower is being pushed by a 14 year old boy who’s sick to death of mowing this friggin’ lawn! I’d hit the mounds of dirt and launch golf-ball-sized rocks out the side of the mower. Anyways. One fine day, after I’d finished the yard, I was down in the wetlands behind our house chopping down alder trees with a machette. It was a hobby. Having nearly run out of daylight I was walking through the yard to the house when, sonofabitch! I see a pile of dirt force itself to the surface not 15 feet in front of me. New mole action. I could see the grass throbbing near the hole where the mole was busy digging a pit trap. They do that you know. Moles are carnivores and they dig pit traps which stay covered with lawn. When you step on the hole, your foot goes right through the grass and dozens of moles swarm your foot. Well I was having none of that! I had a machette and I was ready to use it. So I crept up on the spot where the little bastard was still digging away and I stabbed him. I think I got him, but I never stuck around to check. Because this machette didn’t have a guard at the base of the handle. Instead I went to the ER and got 10 stitches in the meaty bit between my thumb and index finger. Goddam moles…
I did more or less the same thing once, but with better results. I spotted one of the cats fixating on a spot in the yard. Upon closer inspection, I could see the grass bumping up and down. Fresh mole sign…
I grabbed a handy screwdriver, dropped to my knees, and went nuts stabbing the spot, all the while yelling, “DIE, MOLE, DIE!!!” My wife and son, who know me well, rolled their eyes.
That door-to-door missionary never came back, though…
I dug up the spot after this, and found a thoroughly ventilated mole carcass.
Then, not 5 minutes later, another of the furball cats found another mole, and I happily went through the entire process again. I was a happy suburbanite that day! And no stitches, either! Well, in me, any way. Stitches wouldn’t have helped the moles much at that point.
