I slept terribly last night.

I dreamt about tunnels and dirt, of ruined lawns and flower beds.

I forced my frame out of bed and I took a shower. In the steamy room, I organized my thoughts and smiled.

Today was the day.

After a light breakfast, I went to the garage to make preparations for "Operation Eradication."

The pivotal portion of the plan being my latest acquisition, ''The MoleBuster 3000 - Insectivora Live Ensconsement Apparatus."

It's a true beauty, solid stainless, Swiss engineered and painstakingly assembled, it's streamlined and gorgeous and according to the manufacturer, unavoidable by the awful grub-eating garden mavericks.

I paid a small fortune for it on-line at the behest of my wife, She Who Must Protect All Living Things.

So, for my $74.95, I will enjoy the pleasure of capturing the lawn manglers alive, ostensibly, so that I may interrogate him before letting him loose on the lawn of one of the neighbors whom I do not like all that much. (That neighbor might have thought about this before he decided to run maintenance checks on his emergency generator just outside my bedroom window every month at 6:30 a.m. on Sundays.)

I popped the box open and immediately discarded the instruction manual, and carried the contraption out to the front yard.

The grunts were on duty, lying about twenty feet away from a huge hole that they had dug in search of the enemy. I could tell from their hang-dog faces that he'd gotten away again, but I cheered them with the news.

"Look here, Men...our troubles are over!" I placed the silver machine on the lawn, the genius of design revealed itself.

"It's our ticket to smoothness, boys" I piped, "No more lumpy lawn, no more terrible tunnels, and best of all, if we catch him.. we get to torment him!"

I raised my voice as I said this and the troops rallied, Private Smiley jumping up and sniffing at the well-oiled tool in approval.

Together we set about engaging the door mechanism. There was a couple of hook thingies, and a big spring, under which was a little red button.

"That must be the 'Go' button" I chortled and the boys laughed with me, thinking about the hapless, blind dirt criminal who would soon meet it nose first.

Thanks to the diligence of their digging, I only had to drop the machine into one of the craters and look for a covering large enough to shield it from the light.

Lt. Zeke pointed it out instantly. "Good work Soldier..the kiddie pool is perfect!" I picked it up off of its station where it neatly covers the firepit and plopped it over the happy mess.

I spun on my heel and ordered the troops to pull back.

"Let's go, pup one, two, three..." they pranced joyously in anticipation of victory and we rendezvoused by the rockery between the apple tree and the compost heap. "Now we wait, fellas...anybody bring some cards?"

They ignored me, tussleing over a stick, I got out my binocs and zeroed in on the catch point.

Anyone who has ever sat in a duck blind, in a high tree hammock, or even just at a bus stop in the rain knows the difficulties in waiting for a deeply desired event to happen.

There is the dedicated stare that soon turns to sagging eyes, the tedium that gives way to various tooth gnashings, twitching feet and the low singing of ribald songs. Normally, the wait between battles in times of War are given over to the cleaning of weapons, to the preparation of food and to the reclaiming of much needed rest.

But out here in the awful tundra of pock-marked suburban lawns, we have no weapons to clean. Neither is there appreciable food (save a few of last year's garden potatoes). leaving our phalanx nothing else to do but rest.

So here in the still, dew-laced grass and leaves we bedded down, General and his trusted men, awaiting whatever fate will bring.