My neighborhood is having an outbreak of pocket gophers and I am the Rubicon.
To one side is “Pelouse.” His place is the epicenter. He has about 50 holes in his front lawn, even under walkways — so walk at your own risk.
If you recon the area, it’s obvious the holes radiate out from Pelouse’s place to the Southwest for a good half mile. No one’s lawn is safe. It’s war.
My other neighbor, “Gazon,” had a couple of holes in his otherwise emerald field, but I sprayed Critter Ridder on them because I’m a good person — and because the excavation dirt was being dumped on my driveway.
I managed to help Gazon, but at a terrible cost. My lawn turned into the gopher version of the Somme overnight. I tried to laugh it off as free lawn aeration, but . . . after various numerous humane methods failed, leaving my lawn completely ruined and down to dirt, I was forced to extreme measures.
Late at night, for the last month, I go out and put teaspoons of poison bait into the gopher holes. I feel awful about it, but it’s the only thing that works. Sadly, I have to keep doing it because every time one dies, another moves in. I’m having to kill off all Pelouse’s gophers — one by one — and try to stay ahead of the breeding curve.
Last night Gazon caught me — long silver spoon in hand, baiting by moonlight. There really wasn’t much I could say at 9:30 PM to cover up my heinous deed. So I told him the truth. He wasn’t outraged, thank God. In fact, he just wanted to know what I used.
I’m very supportive of nature. I really am. But some days, when it gets to the point one can’t skip across one’s own lawn for fear of breaking an ankle . . . . Good Gravy! Break out mechanized weaponry!