Someday, say two or three hundred years from now, I imagine the surprise on the faces of the anthropologists who excavate the area where my lawn used to grow. Or tried to grow.
Like a drowning woman clinging to every straw thrown my way, I’ve listened to everyone who’s offered any kind of “sure-fire solution” to my mole infestation problem, and in the process, I’ve created either an anthropologist’s dream or nightmare.
It’s already my nightmare, but I’ll share it.
Although “the research” says there’s an average of one mole per acre, I’m absolutely sure the cleared area surrounding my house is way above average. In the front yard, the back yard, the side yard, the cul-de-sac leading to the campfire pit, everywhere, there are mounds and trenches and sink-holes and my lawn is now to dangerous to walk on.
To date, I’ve tried pellets, powders, blood meal, cayenne pepper, juicy fruit gum and 4th of July industrial strength smoke bombs. I even coerced a friend to set a couple traps out for a few weeks, but to no avail. The molehills keep popping up, every single morning, just as if there isn’t a crazed madwoman out gunning for them.
Gunning… hhmmm… now there’s a thought!
