A HOLLOW VICTORY
I'd been doing battle the last few weeks with a rodent in my back yard. A mole, or chipmunk, or something was tunneling under my turf and leaving little golf ball-sized holes in my sorry lawn. My two terriers saw the holes and widened them into dog size craters; their own version of Boston's Big Dig. This required me to bring in dirt to fill them back in.
Within hours, there would re-appear neat little golf ball-sized holes.
First, I stuck the garden hose down one of the holes and left the water running for several hours in the hopes of flushing the critter out. All that did was enlarge his modest subterranean home into a McTunnel. With the larger tunnel, rocks were surfacing that damaged my lawn mower blade ($29.99) the first time, and my lawn mower shaft ($135) the second time.
Madder than Bill Murray in Caddyshack, I poured straight ammonia down the entrance hole in the hopes the fumes would drive the rodent from his home. After emptying the bottle, I plugged the golf ball sized hole with a softball-sized rock and stamped earth over it.
By daybreak, the large rock lay beside the burrow, and a perfect little golf-ball sized hole told me the varmint was open for business as usual. The area around the hole even appeared to be landscaped.
Immediately I went to work cooking up a batch of white-hot charcoals and dropping them one by one down two of the holes, plugging the rest with rags. I would like to have you believe I merely wanted to smoke the rodent out, but after emptying half the 40 pound bag of Webber's, it's fair to say I wasn't opposed to turning up the heat a bit.
As God is my witness, the following sunrise, a nice neat pile of earth and ash lay beside a perfect golf ball-sized hole, like a miniature version of Pompeii. It looked like an Italian resort.
That was it. No more Mr. Nice Guy! I poured gasoline, mothballs, Ajax cleanser, Listerine, Marmite, and every other foul substance I could think of, down the hole and lit it. Again I plugged the small opening with a large rock, followed by an even larger capstone.
Today, I went out and this time the landscape remained unchanged. The rocks were unmoved. There were no holes. But, before I could high-five myself, an utterly empty feeling came over me. Where's my buddy? Where's that sorry, beautiful little hole? Frantically, I lifted up the rocks, and there was no tidy little hole underneath, either.
I knew I shouldn't have used the Marmite! Oh, my poor little Tiger, I thought, not even aware I had subconsciously named him after Mr. Woods. I am so sorry.
What do I do now? There's no one to play with. Nice job, murderer. I guess little Tiger was taking up too much of your sorry weed patch, hey big gardener?
Alone, I ate my Breakfast of Champions, with a basketball sized pit in my stomach.
I'd been doing battle the last few weeks with a rodent in my back yard. A mole, or chipmunk, or something was tunneling under my turf and leaving little golf ball-sized holes in my sorry lawn. My two terriers saw the holes and widened them into dog size craters; their own version of Boston's Big Dig. This required me to bring in dirt to fill them back in.
Within hours, there would re-appear neat little golf ball-sized holes.
First, I stuck the garden hose down one of the holes and left the water running for several hours in the hopes of flushing the critter out. All that did was enlarge his modest subterranean home into a McTunnel. With the larger tunnel, rocks were surfacing that damaged my lawn mower blade ($29.99) the first time, and my lawn mower shaft ($135) the second time.
Madder than Bill Murray in Caddyshack, I poured straight ammonia down the entrance hole in the hopes the fumes would drive the rodent from his home. After emptying the bottle, I plugged the golf ball sized hole with a softball-sized rock and stamped earth over it.
By daybreak, the large rock lay beside the burrow, and a perfect little golf-ball sized hole told me the varmint was open for business as usual. The area around the hole even appeared to be landscaped.
Immediately I went to work cooking up a batch of white-hot charcoals and dropping them one by one down two of the holes, plugging the rest with rags. I would like to have you believe I merely wanted to smoke the rodent out, but after emptying half the 40 pound bag of Webber's, it's fair to say I wasn't opposed to turning up the heat a bit.
As God is my witness, the following sunrise, a nice neat pile of earth and ash lay beside a perfect golf ball-sized hole, like a miniature version of Pompeii. It looked like an Italian resort.
That was it. No more Mr. Nice Guy! I poured gasoline, mothballs, Ajax cleanser, Listerine, Marmite, and every other foul substance I could think of, down the hole and lit it. Again I plugged the small opening with a large rock, followed by an even larger capstone.
Today, I went out and this time the landscape remained unchanged. The rocks were unmoved. There were no holes. But, before I could high-five myself, an utterly empty feeling came over me. Where's my buddy? Where's that sorry, beautiful little hole? Frantically, I lifted up the rocks, and there was no tidy little hole underneath, either.
I knew I shouldn't have used the Marmite! Oh, my poor little Tiger, I thought, not even aware I had subconsciously named him after Mr. Woods. I am so sorry.
What do I do now? There's no one to play with. Nice job, murderer. I guess little Tiger was taking up too much of your sorry weed patch, hey big gardener?
Alone, I ate my Breakfast of Champions, with a basketball sized pit in my stomach.
posted by R. Reynolds at 9:11 AM
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