|The first thought that leapt into my mind when I saw this mole was, nail art. . .|
We were obliged to make a frantic emergency call to Monsieur Lemartinel.
He’s our taupe hommeor our garden mole man if you prefer.
Monsieur Lemartinel is 84 and a true professional. In fact, if one, by pure politesse, asks him questions about his metier he can (and does) explain in excruciating detail with never a nuance in the tone of his drone, the best techniques for capturing the critters causing our current garden bane.
One also learns never to re-pose the question.
|Our mole hills. They are ev-er-y-where.|
He charges eight Euros per body and always asks if we want proof for payment. I alway say, “merci, mais non monsieur.” In a way I hate to send him out to do the dastardly task, because moles are sort of cute, but then again once they have their way the entire garden becomes a series of mud hills.
When we had Georges, our devil wire-haired fox terrier, he loved mole season. Looking out at the garden we could see the mole hills and the mole holes with Georges’s little tail peeking out. Those were the years when it was dangerous to walk in the garden, you could either trip on a hill or stumble in a hole.
He never caught a mole and Georges, who had abrupt mood swings under normal circumstances, was always in an exceedingly bad temper at the end of his trials. As I’ve mentioned before, we found Georges abandoned in a parking lot at a marina in Brittany. He was the worst dog we have ever owned.
When he was sweet he was very, very sweet. When he was bad, he was very, very bad. He loved me and tolerated My Reason For Living In France.
Back to Monsieur Lemartinel, he caught two moles and estimates there are at least three more out there. He’ll be back on Tuesday to check.