I guess that I didn’t know what a mole actually looked like.
In my mind, judging by the size of the holes they create in my garden, they are these large creatures who I have a special kind of hatred for. I have no green fingers, but I do like having a grassy garden and when I look out and see that I have multiple little volcanoes erupting all over the place, spreading a soil of lava onto the little bit of grass that I actually have, which the dogs proceed to roll in… well, I’m not happy.
However, I don’t hate them enough to partake in some inhumane treatment to get rid of them. I have hoped that the more my cats are outside, they will start peeing in said mole hills and hopefully send them next door, retreating like they have lost the battle of their lives.
Now, just a few days ago my husband called me to come outside. Next to his car was a mole. A very dead, most likely frozen mole. My first reaction? ‘That’s how small they are? How can something so cute and so small cause so much damage?’
It’s probably quite silly to read that I didn’t know what they looked like, yet they are literally in my garden for half of my year, but because I “knew” what they looked like, why would I have any reason to question it?
I wanted to bury the little guy and give him a little funeral, but hubby had other ideas. Poor little thing went out with the rubbish on Wednesday.