Gopher Wars

Battle lines have been drawn before in my backyard lawn. For the most part I have won by installing gopher discouraging, solar powered underground intermittent beeping devices. Only slightly audible to human ears, they effectively kept varmints at bay for years—until recently.

At first, I wasn’t sure though the ground felt unnaturally spongy underfoot. In denial, I simply squashed the still green mounds underfoot. I didn’t need any more issues to deal with since I was already struggling with the impending sale of my duplex. In my 13th year of residency, my domestic tranquility was defenseless against a growing number of strangers invading my privacy in quest of possible ownership. Now there were lumps in my peaceful backyard retreat.

Finally accepting this new territorial skirmish, I installed an additional solar powered device. To my amazement and dismay, the gopher pushed it out as if giving me the finger. Never had that happened before! Maybe I hadn’t shoved the device in deep enough. I moved to a fresh mound and made sure it was firmly installed. It wasn’t ejected again but my grass got spongier as the gopher’s territory widened, even skirting along a gravel pathway leading to additional landscaping. It began to dawn on me that I might not win this battle.

Almost evocative of having to deal with my unwinnable housing dilemma, I recognized it was time to take a deep breath and reevaluate—ME. In the overall scheme of things, where was my connection to acceptance, patience, optimism? Cornerstone to my ability to process life, was hopefulness fully activated? Or was my heart being undermined by a burrowing fear of helplessness and loss? Was my sense of wellbeing getting spongy, uncontrollably defaced?

Ahh. Nature has always taught me lessons, given me hope in the darkest nights. It’s always been up to me to choose directions, to extrapolate thoughts into reasonable outcomes. A therapist once told me to imagine the worst outcome then, upon realizing I wasn’t facing that, to lay fear to rest. Nature does one better—it teaches me to return to joy.

The mole’s relentless digging is now turning up gravel once hidden beneath the grass, little hills of pebbly disaster. I’m trying a mixture of castor oil and dish soap in a gallon of water sprayed on what’s left of the lawn. It’ll either work or it won’t. Regardless, the bluest of skies arches overhead while songbirds fill the air with gladness. I don’t even think of the small, subterranean mammal during my daily walk to a nearby park graced with a generous expanse of green. It’s called perspective.