An English In Kentucky


















Monday April 15th 2013    Tim Candler


    I have raged against The Mole.  I have said bad things about him.  I have strung him up in effigy and poked him with sticks.  I have wasted laborious days digging subterranean fences to deter him, and to no avail.  I have spent hours with weapon in hand, staring at a square inch of ground, waiting for someone to move, like a mental patient, and without a cigarette because I was told Moles can smell tobacco smoke.  I have almost cut off my toes with a jembi,  and I have nearly shot myself in the foot with a shotgun, so tunneled has my vision been made. I have written long incomprehensible tirades to complete strangers venting spleen upon the uselessness of their Mole Deterring Product, the puerile nature of their instruction booklet and otherwise wishing them an early grave.  I have sneered at Mole Removal Cream and realized I was in a Pharmacy getting my photograph taken so that I might say farewell to the status of Resident Legal Alien. 

     And I have most certainly done and thought things that I ought not to have done or thought. I once drove the Artist close to insanity by the random 'pinging' of a battery operated sonic device that you stick into the ground and are supposed not to be able to hear, but for some reason I too could hear and insisted I couldn't, so she was probably allergic to something blooming in the river or maybe a distant neighbor had a dog whistle.  I have tried Garlic, Tiger Urine Pellets, Chewing Gum.  I have considered a series of pipes attached to the exhaust of a mowing machine.  But all that's changed, because when put beside a Vole, The Mole is now my friend, my comforter and my hero.  And thank God, he's back in the Vegetable Garden, reclaiming his tunnels from the menace of fast moving, keen eyed and quick talking hordes of Vegetarian Vole who are apparently driven passionate by Spinach seedling and seem to work only at night so they are obviously agents of  The Fallen Angel.


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