One Right Smart Mole

Moles don't laugh with you
Moles don't laugh with you

Don’t you just love standing out on your porch in the late afternoon of a crisp Fall day, drawing deep full breaths of air still damp and pure from a cleansing shower, and listening to the music of nature all around you? If you stand still long enough the birds and the squirrels will pay you no mind and come close enough that you can almost reach out and touch them. If you relax your breathing and your mind, and focus on the moment the stresses of the day and the troubles of the world will drift away like clouds after the rain. That’s what I was doing a little while ago when I saw him.

It was just a barely perceptible movement caught out of the corner of my eye. It didn’t even register at first, but awareness slowly crept in and I realized what I was seeing. The marauding mole that’s been plowing up my yard was on the move.

I’ve tried traps; I’ve tried poisons; I’ve even tried one of those mole-vibrator-repeller things; nothing worked. So, when I saw that dirt move, and for the first time knew for sure where he was, I knew what I had to do. I went inside and hollered, “Honey, where’s my shotgun?”

“You don’t have a shotgun,” she said.

“Okay fine, where’s your shotgun?”


“‘Cause I need it.”


“I just saw that mole that’s been tearing up the yard and if I hurry I can get him.”

“With a shotgun?”

“Unless you think your pistol would work better. Where is it?”

“Fine, the shotgun is in the closet. Please be careful.”

“Sure, sure.” Two minutes later I was back on the porch, shotgun in hand and pockets bulging with shells. I crept down the stairs and made my way to where I’d seen the dirt move. I waited. Minutes passed and then I saw movement several feet away. I started to close in, but the little bastard had strung a trip wire across the yard. I went down, face first in the mud; the shotgun went off, mortally wounding a magnolia tree, and I could swear I heard the mole giggle.

A minute later my pockets were empty and the yard was full of craters, but still no sign of the mole. I think he somehow stole my box of shells too because when I went in to reload they were gone. Mysteriously, my wife was missing too. I sure hope she’s okay.

If you have any good ideas for getting rid of a right smart mole, please let me know.


Tim Couch

Freaky Bicycle Guy

You can't have my bicycle!
You can't have my bicycle!


We like to think of the CowChows as a place of higher learning, and not just because it sits at the top of the hill. For example, I learned a valuable life lesson a little while ago. Actually, I re-learned it but like most good life lessons once is never enough.

You may recall that during this past Summer the neighborhood kids were torturing me daily by riding their four-wheelers up and down the road all day long; up and down, up and down, all day long. I’m not sure which was worse, the sound of the machine growling its way up the hill, the sound of it whining its way down the hill, or the two minutes in between when you couldn’t hear it but knew it was coming back. It was brutal because they took it in shifts and never let up. But, wanting to be a good neighbor and not do any permanent emotional damage to their young psyches, I smiled and waved and called them names they couldn’t hear.

Then one day, the little girl next door was out riding a bicycle. I told her how much I liked her bike and how pretty it was, and I praised her bike for being so wonderfully quiet. Over the next several weeks any time I saw her out riding her bike I was sure to tell her how nice it was and how much I liked it. It was working like a charm. Suddenly, the four-wheelers fell silent and all the neighborhood kids were riding bicycles. Peace came once again upon the CowChows, and it was great.

A little while ago I was out messing around in the yard and I looked up to see the little girl next door riding her bike. I waved and she waved back. I called out, “That sure is a nice bike you’ve got.”

She looked at me for a long moment, saying nothing. I was about to repeat my compliment when she suddenly screamed, “You can’t have my bicycle!” And, then she rode off as fast as she could go.

I realized that I had gone too far. I’d commented on her bike one too many times, and sometimes the difference between achieving the desired result and becoming the “freaky bicycle guy” is just knowing when to shut up.

Shortly thereafter, I began hearing growling and whining again. So far it’s just me, but I expect the four-wheelers to start up any time.

Best Regards,

Tim Couch