Pardon me for using a four-letter word on The Inquirer’s web page:
V-O-L-E
And another:
M-O-L-E
Let me tell you, every time I walk around my yard and sink ankle-deep into a tunnel, I let loose with a few other expletives I definitely can’t type here!
An insurgency of renegade rodents has seized my landscape.
Moles and voles are recreating the New York City subway system beneath my lawn and flower beds.
Before I continue my tale, a zoological primer on our subject.
The basic difference between voles and moles is their cuisine.
Voles are vegetarians. They feed on roots, bulbs, and the crowns and trunks of small woody plants like roses, shrubs and young trees.
Moles are meat-eaters. That is, if you consider grubs and worms on par with filet mignon.
Here’s a little alliteration to help you keep your subterranean scamps straight:
V = Vegan = Vole
M = Meat = Mole
Got that?
A telltale sign of mole activity is a cone of soil pushed up by the critter tunneling into the ground. The exit holes of voles are much neater. No piles.
While moles are loners, voles are voracious sex fiends, making rabbits seem chaste by comparison.
There are two species of vole common to our area (like one’s not enough!!!).
Meadow voles are above-ground foragers. Pine voles do their dirty work out of sight, below the soil.
I’ve got pine voles.
Okay. Enough science. Back to my misery . . .
I’ve had moles and voles over the years. But nothing compared to the explosive scale of this latest assault.
It’s not an exaggeration that every square foot of my property is affected by the varmints. Euonymus bushes keeled over. Roses with roots whittled to pencil points. A host of hostas laid to waste from down under. Bulbs and tubers gnawed then tossed out the holes like corn cobs after a cook out.
And all this death and destruction over the course of two weeks!
I really lost it one afternoon when I came upon the casualties in my daughters’ heirloom tomato patch. The severed stalk of one poor Brandywine was actually pulled into the tunnel of its attacker.
In my anguish I emailed Meredith, our county Master Gardener Coordinator. I was throwing in the trowel and swearing off gardening for good, was all I wrote.
The next day, as I sat inside my house with curtains drawn, unshaven, wearing the same clothes I slept in, and feeding my grief with brownies and Pepsi, a knock came at the door.
There on the step stood Meredith, along with our county president Judy, and Susan, another Master Gardener officer. They brought with them a tub filled with mouse traps, jars of peanut butter, and clay flower pots.
A Helpline intervention to bring me back off the ledge.
I’m ready to reclaim my garden.
In addition to the arsenal supplied by my Master Gardener friends, I called in a professional pest control expert, and consulted Rutgers Cooperative Research and Extension.
A minefield of mousetraps, slathered in peanut butter (intelligence reports indicate “chunky” style is the preferred bait) are strategically placed about the perennial beds and lawn areas. The traps are set near the exit holes and covered with clay pots to create the illusion the hungry buggers are still in their tunnels as they (hopefully) take their last meal.
My certified pesticide applicator guy dropped anticoagulant rodenticide into the tunnels and holes. For the moles he brought a box of poison gummy worms (Talpirid).
I’ll provide dispatches from the battlefield in the days to come.
Meanwhile, send me your stories, along with more ways to whack the moles!
