I have a mole, or family of moles, living under my lawn. Yes, a little guy similar to this one has been busy digging up dirt and piling it on the sidewalk. Gone is the lush, nicely manicured lawn. It has been replaced by patches of dirt. As you may imagine, I’m not happy about this latest development. You see, growing up in San Francisco, we didn’t have a lawn. We had cement. The only greenery was what grew up through the cracks in the cement.

Granted, this lawn is the original one my aunt and uncle put in when they bought the house in 1954, but it’s the principal that matters here. It should be MY choice as to when a new lawn needs to be put in, not some damn mole’s. No matter how cute he is. How do I know he’s cute? Well, I saw him once as I was cursing him and calling him, “That little mole bastard.” I was looking for his little mole holes and aiming the hose nozzle down them when his little head popped up and then back down really quickly. And damn it, he was adorable. So, I put the hose away and went in the house grumbling.

Is it too much to ask that pests be ugly? Rats and cockroaches comply with this rule. A giant Miller moth terrified me in the bathroom the other day. I know he had fangs. I just know it. I like wildlife but I don’t like it in my house, in my yard or under my lawn. Where’s the ideal place for wildlife to be? On my T.V. in a nature documentary.

So, I’m trying to find other ways to make the mole leave. Cursing him, his mother, father and family name hasn’t worked. Getting all Noah’s Ark on his ass and flooding him out hasn’t worked. A neighbor was having the same problem with moles and she bought some device you stick in the lawn that emits sounds underground that drive moles nuts and make them leave. Hmm…I guess that’s why they’ve moved down to my lawn. (Gee. Thanks, neighbor!)

I bought one of these devices but I haven’t put it in yet. I’ve been wondering about what kinds of sounds would drive a mole crazy. I’m envisioning something like the military blaring music at an enemy to weaken their resolve. Didn’t we bombard Manuel Noriega with heavy metal? I imagine prisoners at Gitmo waking up to Lee Greenwood’s “God Bless the U.S.A.” I mean, that song grates on my nerves and I’m not a suspected terrorist.

Can you imagine if this was the sound that the moles were subjected to, over and over and over again? Yoko Ono sounds like some crazed predator who wants to eat little moles for dinner. Hell, if she could break up the Beatles, she can certainly chase my moles away.