Time to gopher it

I have a terribly embarrassing confession today. Yesterday I discovered I had been outsmarted and/or outmaneuvered by a small rodent, a pocket gopher. The day before yesterday I had set a pair of traps in a tunnel between several fresh mounds of dirt on the far slope behind the house. When I went to check the traps yesterday. I discovered that the center hole and both tunnels were full of fresh dirt, the traps were deeply buried and, when I dug them out, both traps were empty but sprung. I may try again tomorrow or I may nurse my wounded ego for several more days and try again after the forecast rain.

more of these = fewer gophers ;>)

Photo by J. Harrington

If you’re wondering why I go to the trouble of trapping gophers, it’s not for the bounty the county pays. Gopher mounds are tough on the tractor’s mower deck and blades. I’ve tried explaining to the critters that, if they stayed in areas where I don’t mow or try to grow things like fruit trees, I’d be happy to live and let live. Apparently, gophers have not studied ESL (English as a Second Language), nor can I find a gopher dictionary to help me translate. For lack of meaningful communications, war continues.

Now, here’s some good news. Over the past few days I’ve been spending more time outside and it’s been beneficial to my overall perspective. In fact, I think I’ll cut short today’s posting and go look for another tunnel. Consider it my version of playing in the dirt instead of doom scrolling.

“All the time I pray to Buddha I keep on killing mosquitoes."

Elizabeth Jacobson

^—Issa

Issa, I killed 8 gophers this fall, held 
each cold body in my open palm,  

stroking the river colored fur between their silent black eyes 
before dropping them into a plastic bag. 

Their little hands were cupped  
as if in death they cradled one last thing 

because nothing does not continually hold 
all of what remains, or all of what  

has been carried somewhere else.  
The tunnels these creatures dug in my yard,  

destroying even the hardiest plants, 
will soon be used by voles and rats,  

and other gophers,  
from other yards, that will be trapped and killed, by me. 

I met a man who hunts elk.   
He shot a large buck, and when he was beginning to dress it,  

just as he made the first cut with his blade through the buck’s neck,  
this man opened his mouth to yawn.   

The neck of the elk exploded, and the cervical fluid  
burst from its spine,  

infecting the man  
with a parasite that nearly killed him.   

Issa, I cannot absolve myself, 
cannot clear impurities from my body. 

You said, A bath when you’re born,  
a bath when you die, 

how stupid. 
How extraordinary. 

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