Frankie brought a mole to our front door the other day. More specifically, she brought what John Cleese would call an “ex-mole.” She had spent time playing with her catch, throwing it in the air and snatching it back off the ground before it could burrow to safety, dashing about the yard like a mad thing with it in her mouth, until finally the mole wouldn’t play any more. Then she offered it to us, much like a cat does a mouse, if the cat weighed 60 pounds and the mouse was as large as, say, a mole. When we declined the gift, she took it away and buried it somewhere. We think.

Before Frankie, we wished there were no moles in our yard. We complained about the hills and ridges. Now we have holes and furrows. So, according to the law of averages, nothing has changed. This is b. s., of course, because everything has changed. The yard is still difficult to navigate around the hazards and looks a little like a mine field, if the mines were very small and more annoying than dangerous. But, we wanted the moles gone, and Frankie is obliging us.

Be careful what you wish for.