‘More often than not’ said the moral philosopher Peter Singer, ‘there is a compromise between ethics and expediency.’ Too bloody right there is.
By way of background, nowadays I try to live a life of which Greta Thunberg would vaguely approve. I fly much less than I did, have binned the diesel for a smaller car, and recycle as diligently as age and memory allow me to. Above all, in my capacity as leading beekeeping bore in the village, I try to make room in my life for all God’s creatures, with the exception of wasps and jellyfish. And maybe crocodiles. And, of course, cats. Obviously cats.
Until now.
For the last three mornings, ever larger mole hills have appeared on the beautiful manicured lawn that I have worked on for 24 years. And these are not just any mole hills- they are vast construction sites that, in any well regulated society, would need planning permission, quantity surveyors and retentions. If you scan the attached picture, you will note that the little sod actually pushed up the trap that was intended to catch it, plus half a brick, plus loads of stones. Now, in a life dedicated to short cuts and making do, the one thing that brings out the closet perfectionist in me, as it happens, is the state of my lawn, so these are not happy moments. There is something insolently frank about a bloody great heap of earth on a lawn of a morning, when there was nothing there the night before. And it is quite impossible for anyone other than a patient saint to believe that the mole hasn’t done it deliberately, and just to get up your nose, or that it hasn’t chosen the pristine lawn in favour of a more secluded spot for the same reason.
Ignore the cute furry animal love-fest: moles are good for nothing little thugs, maulers of innocent earthworms and despoilers of all that nature has made beautiful. They line up in the story of Creation as one of those Friday afternoon production line afterthoughts, and Noah should simply have sailed without them. ‘Tunnel your way out of that!’ he could have cheerfully called out to their blinking, myopic faces as he slipped away from Mount Ararat. ‘And by the way, I also left a pair of vicious Tunneling Mole-Eaters to keep you company.’
The nice part of me asked the dominant, stroppy part, what Jesus would have done if his lawn was being wrecked by moles. And the answer, of course, for the man who after all could turn water into wine, would be that he would be a whole lot more effective than me at trapping the little bastards. What he did with them afterwards, miraculous revival and rehoming for example, would be up to him, but get them off his lawn he most certainly would.
Wind in the Willowshas a lot to answer for. Multiple generations of innocents have grown up with the mistaken notion that moles are fastidious, honourable, house proud companions, always on the look out for a lame duck to help out. This is not the case, as you now know: moles are famous for kicking people’s crutches away, and making fun of foreigners.
So now we come to the really dark bit, spoiler alert or not. Any countryman is aware that moles are haemophiliac, which means that their blood doesn’t clot, which means that they die if they cut themselves. Find a few holly leaves or an old six inch stretch of barbed wire, stick it down a run, and Bob is eventually your late uncle. OK, you feel a bit bad about it, but guilt is as much part of the human condition as utterly messing up your Brexit negotiations, and we should welcome it as such.
Only, once again, when I tried to do exactly that this morning I found I couldn’t. I still find that the notion of some snuffling velvety thing watching its own life blood ebb uncontrollably away whilst its family sits in their suburban home waiting for supper, is uncomfortable, and not really fair play. It’s like putting Jeremy Corbyn in a Union Jack suit, just not humane.
Greta Thunberg. She has much to answer for.
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