Gardening: A haiku for rodentia

Wretched mole why can’t
I kill you? I am so soft.
To the park with you!

So I'm getting the mail when I spot some movement in one of my many flower beds. Moles have been tearing up beds and lawn since we moved in, but I hadn't actually seen one in the entire 4+ years we've lived here. So, manly man that I am, I put down the mail, grab a shovel and–with all the might you'd need to be a primary suspect in CSI, Bones or Murder, She Wrote–whacked the shit out of the mound in my mulch bead. 

The movement stopped.

Surely, surely I'd killed the little fucker. Ah, but what to do? Leave the little bugger under their to fertilize the plants. But no, I'd be putting in some plants in a few days time (I've got nearly a hundred impatiens raised from seed), so out he'd have to come. What a gruesome planting experience that'd be. So, I tip the shovel and scrape back the mulch to find … nothing. Hmm. So I dig down a little bit and uncover his furry ass. Only, I can see he's still breathing. The several inches of soil above him must have dispersed the force of the blow. I dug him out the rest of the way and pondered over his stunned self for a few moments. It's one thing to whack the crap out of a moving mound of mulch, another to squish a furry little mammal. Sigh. The part of me raised by hunters raised by hunters and farmers just wants to step on it and be done. The parent in me just doesn't want to deal with this at all. So, I scoop the little fucker up and put him in a bucket. Only, he flops off the shovel and back onto the ground. So I grab him and plop him in. Moles are surprisingly solid little animals. Most furry little things you pick up are soft and squishy; not so the mole. It's like a fur-covered rock.

I kept him in the bucket for a few hours while I went about my business and decided what to do with him. In the end, I showed him to Reed, we observed his physical characteristics necessary to his habitat, and then settled on relocating him to the park. 

Sigh. I can hear the inverse telling of The Grinch that Stole Christmas in the back of my head: "… and what happened then? Well, in Whoville they say that the Grinch's balls shrank three sizes that day!"