Mole-Hunting Season at the Farnival
Rosie, Adriana, and Meadow
I’ll admit, when I first started finding dead moles, I blamed my feline posse, because, normally, my cats are the ones responsible for the critter carcasses I find in the basement, bathroom, and kitchen, on the deck, the front porch, and scattered around the yard. Not this time.
A week or so ago, on a sunny, warm afternoon, I was working in my office, when I looked out the window and saw Adriana in the backyard, digging in a pretty decent-sized hole. Suddenly, she leapt back, ears flying up and then dove in again, gleefully kicking up dirt.
When she came out, she was clutching a rat-looking animal in her snout. Rosie and Meadow saw it too, but they were already in the mosh pit, and they charged at Ade, who bounded through the air like she won a million-dollar lottery.
By the time I got outside, a hardcore game of smear the mole-holder was going down, and Rosie had it. It changed possession several times, taking me a good five to seven minutes to corral them, but by then, the mole was already dead and the game was winding down. I busted them red-handed.
The reason I’m writing about moles is because until my dogs started hunting and killing them, I’d never seen one up close and personal. Have you? They are extraordinarily ugly creatures. They don’t have eyes, and their noses look slightly phallic. Right? I don’t even know what to say about those hands. I found this one in my yard:
