All I've Got

I know they say not to make a mountain out of a mole hill.But whatever genius coined this phrase has surely never been forced to live with mole hills pocking his green grass like round turds protruding from the ground; they might as well be mountains for all the dirt that is being displaced!I have found moles to be rather sensitive creatures prone to mild cases of flatulence, poor dental health, and the occasional hankering for a sweet morsel of chocolate. Who wouldn't be any of these things after eating earth worms day in and day out? I understand that a mole is a mole. He was born a mole, he will die a mole, and it is only fitting that he act like a mole in between.I like to think of myself as trying to live in tune with nature and the environment. I'd just as soon remove a spider from the ceiling and take it outside than kill it with the rubber tread of my husband's tennis shoe. (Unless it's a large hairy spider the size of my hand that jumps into the house from the back patio and attempts to crawl under the couch. Then you're dead, sucker.)But, I'm not a violent person by nature. Like everyone else, I have lines that any creature of nature may inadvertently cross. Somehow I've managed to convince myself that the aggressive behavior directed at the moles in the backyard is simply a matter of self-defense. What complicated my moral compass was when Daisy entered the picture.Now, Daisy is a digger. I'm beginning to believe she loves dirt as much as moles. From the very first day we brought her home, she's had her paws in the ground and her nose in a hole. After digging for minutes on end, fervently searching for the source of some exotic smell, more often than not it's nothing more than a rock. (Unfortunately for me, there seem to be a lot of them in the ground.)This particular afternoon I caught her digging, it turned out to be more than a rock. Creeping closer, through squinted eyes it looked as if she had caught a toad.A toad with pink feet."Daisy, did you eat the skin off that poor toad's feet?!" I shrieked.She looked at me and cocked her head.At the time I just thought she was having trouble understanding why I wouldn't have done the same. Now I realize it's because she thought I was weird for thinking it a toad. Upon closer inspection, it dawned on me that toads don't have fur. And that was when it began to burrow back down into the earth."Oh, no you don't!" I shouted.Shoving Daisy Stand aside, I grabbed the most resourceful and useful thing I could find – the 3 ft shovel for the pooper scooper.At this point, the mole was too deep to simply pick up. I would have to dig. It occurred to me that I couldn't actually say with certainty whether moles were dirty creatures tainted with rabies, or notorious for being aggressive little buggers who bit at any finger reckless enough to get in its way. Faced with this unpleasant prospect I decided it was best to try to get beneath the mole with the flat end of the scooper and lift him, like a spatula would flip a pancake. Daisy watched with unbridled enthusiasm, as I imagine she was thrilled to see me engaging in one of her all time favorite activities. (That's what I love about dogs. She could have called me a hypocrite, but at that moment all she felt was gratitude for having a human mom that finally understood her passion for digging.)Several times I imagine how close I came close to crushing the frightened creature in half. The queasiness I felt in my stomach at that thought was when I realized with certainty that I could not kill a mole.1 minute later the mole was sitting in an orange bucket on my kitchen stove."Crap," I thought. "Now what?"Turns out moles are the opposite of aggressive. In fact, they play dead.I know this because he was laying there in front of pretending to be dead.Perhaps he was trying to invoke some sympathy, perhaps he was being calculative and manipulating my emotions. Whatever the motive, he succeeded in convincing me that he was creature of passivity and would never have hurt me given the chance.This whole episode took place minutes before I had to leave to pick up Emma from school, which prompted the most ridiculous conversation with myself:Do I take the mole with me?No. Don't be stupid. Who does that? Look at it. It's a mole in a bucket.Where would he sit – in your lap?Well I can't just leave him here – what if he jumps out.Moles don't jump.Well they could! What if I put the lid on?No Dummy! He'll suffocate. Why don't you find a more suitable container and put some dirt in there so he isn't so scared.Hold on. You're concerned about his feelings?? He's a MOLE.And so it went. Needless to say I felt ridiculous.But don't worry. Later that evening as David and I sat watching a movie, listening to him in his plastic container digging in circles, perhaps wondering why he wasn't getting anywhere, I suddenly knew what I would do with him.I left the house and crossed the street to the mail box. Under the cover of darkness I dumped the container of mole and dirt beneath a big bush in the neighbor's yard and wished him well.Let's just hope moles don't have that special homing ability that pigeons do. That, dear friend, would just make this story rather embarrassing.