None of the trees or shrubs in the 1/2 acre yard showed it, but there was a cold wind moving through us. It was just before sunrise, 0500 hours, and the last vestige of moon shunted off the boughs of the big cedars and lit the tops of the fence posts that lined the killing field.

I torqued my stiffened frame around in the lawn chair to inspect my troops but in the still faint light I couldn't make out their positions. Just dark, static lumps that might have been plantings, until one of them moved.

"I'm glad to see you haven't shirked your duties, Lieutenant," I said. The furry shape ambled toward me, stopping at attention by my feet. Lt. Zeke gave me an appreciative lick on the hand and laid back down in the wet grass.

I heard a slight scratching noise just then and I instinctively swung the big 6 Volt Groundsweeper light beam across the ground in front of me.

There it was!

The beginnings of a new tunnel, I held my cool and the boys didn't notice it at first.

I shifted slowly in my lawn chair, leaning to grab "the horrible plumbers shovel" with the sharpened tip when Private Smiley got wind of the action.

All at the same time, the three of us bolted to the place where the dirt had crested the lawn, Zeke pouncing on the mound, me trying to move him aside with my boot while angling for a shovel strike. At the same time, Smiley held the right flank, growling and yelping a vicious battle song.

In the half-light and the confusion I heaved my weight into the shovel handle, only to nail my left foot with a glancing blow and then nearly take the end off of Lt. Zekes nose.

On the second try, the shovel sank into the fecund pile up past the hilt to where only the yellow of the plastic handle showed above ground.

Frustrated at the thought of failure, I struck the ground several more times, each blow sinking deeper into the mangled lawn hole.

When I quit the attack there was silence as the ancient instinct that men and animals share when tuned into the pursuit of prey took hold. We stood stock still, the three of us, until we heard another scratching sound about twenty feet to our rear.

Smiley got there first and began digging like a feral steamshovel. I saw that it was useless to try and chop the marauder in two since the dogs had alerted him, so I shuffled back to my chair and my warm lap blanket.

The practice of pest control is not a new one. Sumerians used sulfur compounds to kill insects and mites.

Roman Architect, Marcus Pollio designed and built the first rat-proof granary and the Roman, Cato the Censor advocated oil sprays for use as pesticides.

As early as 300 AD the Chinese used predatory ants in citrus groves with little bamboo bridges so the ants could move between trees to control caterpillar and beetle pests.

In 1476 in the town of Berne, Switzerland, cutworms were taken to court, pronounced guilty, excommunicated by the Archbishop and banished. The punishment of these awful grub-groaters, presumably, gave rise to the first, modern day court systems.

In modern times and on this continent we are far more spoiled. Our pridefulness in the rich green lawns and carefully-coifed flora does not suffer well the dirty destruction of a common tunneler.

So, not surprisingly, all manner of remedies have crossed the devious minds of desperate gardeners. I have tried them all and can tell you that the home-style ones are the least effective, and the most humorous.

Human hair, bubble Gum, broken glass, engine oil, mothballs, car exhaust, urine, and dog doo all stuffed into the holes, my yard now qualifies as a Superfund Cleanup site.

The garden hose slowed down the number of new tunnels, but one time I forgot to turn the water off and my neighbor's basement began to flood. I've used a product called 'Mole-Be-Gone', which is simply castor oil in a fancy blue bottle and which merely annoyed them the way I get annoyed by the guy in the elevator who wears way too much cologne.

And as far as annoying them, the dogs do their part well enough. During peak season, in early summer, my lawn and garden beds are so badly cratered from the dual action of mole and dog that there is literally more dirt brown than lawn green.

At first I discouraged the dogs from digging, but decided that they spend more time on duty here than I do, so they can at least give the moles a bit of their own medicine. And to make matters more difficult, wife still sides with the Mole.

"They do aerate the soil...and they eat some of the little grubs that chew on your Azaleas," she said.

She is ardent about protecting any sort of animal and won't tolerate their destruction, excepting spiders, which I try to defend in similar fashion, but am only patently ignored.

In addition, the EPA has begun to phase out the production of diazinon and dursban, the only chemicals that might actually remove the diet of the bad guys, sending them elsewhere. Not that this would matter anyway, since the Mrs. is also a champion of all things organic and non-toxic.

So, in reality, after all the tooth gnashing and preparations of war. I am reduced to chasing moles with a shovel. It's not so bad really. I try to look at the bright side ~ What is a man without purpose ~ and at least I'm getting some fresh air and exercise.