When the snow finally departs we walk the yard to discover the mole damage. Mounds, tunnels, holes, burrows...housing projects, malls, and interstates in minature. Ghastly disturbances to an already mediocre lawn.

"Smudge," I beg, "do me the favor of eating moles for a few months."

He brings home a squirrel instead. Quite a feat even if he had four legs. Considering that Smudge was outside for a half hour and the squirrel is a half day dead (and unmarked) we conclude that his "gift" died of natural causes.

Peace, the moles