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The Mole Wars

Vladimir scored again last night. That's my pet name for my mole trap - Vladimir. Like his Transylvanian namesake, his enemies know him as 'The Impaler'. I dug up the skewered little lawn terrorist and buried him deep in what I suspected was the main nest - you know, to send a message. I pictured a bearded patriarch mole hiding down there, deep in the tunnels and caves, masterminding the nightly raids. Sure, my tactics may seem a bit harsh, but like my president, I'm just taking the battle to them.

Since the start of hostilities, Vladimir has been one of my two successful weapons in the Mole Wars. My beagle, Georgia was the other, and she scored quite a few, but then died a few years back. I don't think the moles had anything to do with it, but you can never be sure.

The conflict began in the spring of my first year in the Midwest. The subversive, subterranean varmints tilled up my brand new lawn, leaving a grid of tunnels dotted with dirt mounds, and it's been the same every spring and fall since. My new neighbors and co-workers suggested a variety of solutions, from water to smoke (smoke and mirrors, if you ask me), even chemical warfare to attack their rations (after all, an army travels on its stomach.) One even mentioned a system involving a small generator and buried electrodes. Another recommended a sound system with buried speakers playing white hip-hop music twenty-four hours a day to drive them away. None of those strategies worked worth a hoot. Moles seem impervious to all manner of torment.

In our second year, I bought Vlad. I remember that summer evening when Georgia and I trooped out back with the new weapon. She fell into her tail-wagging, nose-to-the-ground, hyper-sniffing mode while I checked the places where, the day before, I'd stomped down the tunnels and planted stick markers on the flat spots. Just as Vlad's instruction sheet promised, the moles had restored the main runs. I set my spring loaded, six-pronged mole poker over one and gave Georgia a sinister wink as I slapped the dirt from my hands.

Georgia was with me the next night when I dug up the sprung trap with a dead mole still clutched in its talons. She apparently mistook it for a mole-kabob and I nearly lost the prize. We went back in the basement, and she watched as I cleaned Vlad and praised his elegant and efficient design. She got a bit jealous and danced a nervous little jig, whined, and then stood there looking at me with her head tilted and ears cocked (well, as

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