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In the  quiet English countryside their lives a labour of love, Talpa group of mole helper’s that are always working hard digging, hidden from view, that quietly aerate the soil, spending their whole lives, saving the family time and money and mean no harm to the garden.  

They are happy underground dweller’s that have their work cut out for themselves.  They hate to be disturbed, though not many predators are small enough to fit down their burrows holes.

They are happy as pig’s in mud, loving the UK moist soil, with the only sign above of their existence, being fresh mole hills that appear overnight, erupting like volcanoe’s, without the family even feeling the ground, earth move.  They are a digger’s club of pro’s that are endlessly eating cock shafer beetle bug’s and earthworms while they dig, leaving their mark on the lawn. 

They are antisocial loner’s that like solidarity, living separately with their own mole maze of tunnel’s, accept when it’s mating season, when they get together with the male moldwarp’s.  Earth thrower’s that instinctively make fast ground, breaking new territory, building tunnels of love, direct routes straight to the female sow’s on heat each year.

The moles are not monogamous for life, sleeping around with a different partner each year, having one night stands underground, doggy style and swaping to a new partner each year, breeding season.

The male’s have short lived relationships with the female’s surviving by the skin of their teeth, stuck in a rut with the larger males voracious appetite holding them down ontop, boaring it up them mating, weather they like it or not, every winter to early spring, ensuring the survival of their species by procreating with a litter of pup’s that will have a lifespan of about 4 to 5 years.

Moles are mammals and give birth and breastfeed like human being mother's.  While pregnant the mother mole save’s a stockpile of supper worms up ready, to live on, after giving birth to the litter of pup’s when she takes a well earned break from the hardwork of childbirth and rest’s, stay’s with the hairless naked, easy go lucky babies to breastfeed them.

They grow up fast and the mother mole kick’s the pup’s out of the home after weaning to stand on their own feet and go it alone from about 6 week’s of age digging holes of their own.  

They are big furry handful’s that fit in the palm of your hand, that grow on you after a while, designed with perfectly imperfect, proportioned bodies that can get pigmented beauty spots like people, called after their own namesake.  They can’t go out in the direct sunlight, only after dark, in case they turn into malignant tumours.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, only a mother could love them, ugly truth. 

Mole’s that love making a meal out of eating cock chaffer beetle grubs and earthworms.

They never get bored with a one track mind, repetitively doing the same thing all the time, shift worker’s that do take regular breaks around the clock and rest inbetween burrowing.

They never hibernate resting on their laurels and actually stay warm becoming more active, digging deeper into the subterranean soil, as winter approaches to avoid the frozen, colder surface.

They usually don’t drink with their meal, because the earthworms are succulent enough and high in moisture content to help keep them hydrated.  

The mole’s hunt out the unwanted house guests that are big enough to fit in their small holes like weazel’s and voles.

Moles establish their own territories, guard them with their lives.

The mole’s think all’s fare in love and war with a great trick up their sleeve with the little moles that people love to hate, wrist bone stick that they use when their outsized by their bigger predator’s, that give them a run for their money, evening up the score when their outsized in a fight.

All gloves are off scraping and fighting amongst themselves and predators, that invade their tunnels with the small and mighty, courageous moles.

While they can’t get a word in edgewise, rolling around grabbling with each other on the ground.

When a predator goes in for the kill, clamping down with a tight grip, cut throat strangle hold, bite on their neck, they have a handy, trick up their sleeve, survival tool, flick of the wrist weapon, that’s like a Dartmouth bone, thumbnail toothpick, that they use in one last ditch effort to survive, second chance at life, by using leverage with the rigid knobby to prise open the predator’s jaw, full of sharp teeth, pinning them down with a stab in the dark aim, tongue tieing them down for the count of two/three.

This sometimes enables them to break free like a cat with nine lives and survive by the skin of their teeth.

Have a noble pursuit protecting their home/territory

Having to outsmart the foxes digging deeper that have ferocious appetites that make a mountain out of a molehill, trying to dig them out of their tunnels.

Rags to riches story in the fur trade.

Moles that matter at the end of the day

Fight tooth and nail amongst themselves.

They cope with constant carbon monoxide, pipe dreams with the lack of oxygen in their tunnel’s underground that dosen’t slow them down. But they do occasionally surface and come up for a breath of fresh air in the quiet hours at night.

Little gardener’s that fertilize the soil with their dropings.  Don't keep me in the dark, shed some light on the problem that they dig their own shallow graves and die, buried in their tunnel’s decomposing after 4/5 year’s lifespan.