My Mole...Continued

So one sunshiny weekend afternoon recently, I'm playing wiffle ball or whatever that game is called when your 4 year old smacks you in the shin (at great velocity for a child) with a yellow plastic baseball bat. As I wrenched in pain and knelt to the ground in agony, my real suffering was about to begin because my left knee was sinking five inches underground like a prairie dog trapped in quicksand. "A mole hole" I exclaimed! "Damn it!" In pain and in panic I did the one thing that I knew that I could do. No. Not get liquored up. I went back for water-hose-round-two. But one tiny problem remained. The tunnel that I was about to penetrate (sexual innuendo unintentional) was only three feet from the exterior wall of my living room. Accepting the risk that I, er, my wife would be hauling buckets of soil-laden dirty water from my basement, I went ahead with Project Flush Rodent. At full force and a half hour later there is presently no sign of wetness in my basement, only in my pants from the excruciating pain my shin is still in from being whacked by my kid's Mark McGuire impersonation. As I go check on the hose, I notice some strange earth and weed activity. It was reminiscent of when Artie Johnson would divulge himself from behind the tall grass, clad in military helmet and camouflage jacket on Laugh In. "Very Interesting" I screeched, for there right in front of my bleary eyes was a wet, black, matted animal of the rodentia sort, plying his way with his webbed feet toward the daylight. His pink little snout erected toward the unsightly sun. It must have been quite a wake-up call for this nocturnal creature when his tunnel-condo began to collapse like the Titanic. There he was, the source of my torment, staring at me eye to, well, I don't know if they actually have eyes, so let's just say eye to shovel face. I screamed to my wife..."Get me a bag!" She accommodated and I wrapped this plastic tote turned catchers mit around my right hand and went for it. SUCCESS!

I pulled the stunned mole up from the ground in a great fete of bravery. He was to confused to fight and I wrapped him up in this yellow Shop Rite adorned bag -- come casket. I had finally caught him and simultaneously saved my relationship with my neighbor who would otherwise been the recipient of this unwanted house guest. But then the guilt set in. I mean the mole was only living his life, albeit at the expense of my sanity. But how could I fault him? How was he to know that he chomped up around $200,000 worth of real estate? I decided that the mole must live...just not near me...or my neighbor.

Having lived in Bedford for a mere 3 years, I haven't had the opportunity to get into a feud or hate anyone in town enough to drop this varmint in his yard. So I thought to provide him with a loving home of sorts...a nearby nature preserve. So I wrapped a couple of insurance shopping bags around my captive and then threw him into my backpack, jumped onto my bike and peddled my way toward his new home in Pound Ridge. As I pulled up to his new digs (pardon the pun), I noticed cars parked in this makeshift lot -- something I had never seen before in this underutilized park. It turns out that there was a small cadre of boy scouts digging holes themselves but for the purpose of installing new trailway signs. As one scout approached, he exclaimed "Sir!" So I naturally looked over my shoulder to see if there was a dignitary there, but I quickly realized that when he said sir he was politely addressing me. Frankly I feel unworthy of the title sir. At 37 I'm more accustomed to yo, hey you or daddy. He approached me to ask if I needed assistance. Probably due to my profuse sweating and puffed up red face from riding up the hill to the nature preserve. I told him I was liberating my mole and I gave him a little background history 'tween me and the tunneler. "Can I look?" he said. I opened the bag. "He looks dead sir." It was true, he hadn't moved his soaked water-logged furball of a body at all. "Well, I did my best" I said apologetically. "Yes, you did sir" said the scout. "I shall bury this brave warrior by this elm tree as to not forget his courageous soul." (Actually I never said any of this crap, but I'm working up to a great sappy finish!) I plopped the lame critter on the soil and then lo and behold, within ten seconds that wet little bastard was tunneling his way into his new earth encrusted co-op! He was alive and, well, digging! And on scout's honor the scout said to me in all seriousness, "Sir you've done a good deed today" and we parted company.

And I had done something to feel proud of. I put my hate and loathing behind me and spared the life of a useless animal. But perhaps more importantly I saved myself five Ulysses S. Grant bank notes. And in tribute to that great former US President I began to drink heavily with my whisky surplus funds as I began to ponder the more important questions in life such as...Who exactly is buried in Grant's tomb. And thus became the name of my mole...Grant. For I granted him a second chance to dig.

True story.

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