My thought was pure malevolence. The Gophers in the garden were obviously taking great delight in killing our favorite plants. More than that, their sense of humor, leaving a wilting, rootless plant, teetering in the afternoon wind, only to fall at the slightest touch, had really pissed me off. So I had resolved to dispatch them.

At the hardware store I considered carefully the myriad means of their demise, fast and slow. I selected a cylinder, 4 inches long, about 3/4 inch in diameter filled with some sort of pulp designed to create smoke that would drive them out of the very earth. Once home, I selected what looked like an active mound, found the hole, lit the short cigar-like smoke bomb and slid it into the hole, lightly placing a clod to close it.

I waited. Cheryl watched.

The smoking cylinder came back out of the hole. Incredulous, I shoved it back in, again closing the hole. It came back out; I shoved it in. It came back out a third time. I realized that there was something, someone at the other end, already pushing back. The smoke-cigar had gone out; I had lost the battle.

Gophers enjoy the reputation of being rodent pests that take particular delight in killing the most beautiful plants in one’s garden. I suspect much more of them. I am gathering scientific evidence to support the thesis that gophers are a race of gnomes, an ancient mythological race that predates humans, and are endowed with particular supernatural abilities. Like the ability to face a foe many times larger in size, and push fire into his face, (and we’re not talking metaphorically here). Of course this is the quality of chutzpah, which is demonstrated mythologically by only the greatest of heroes and fools. And to my chagrin, I have a witness to back this up.

Then there is the ability to navigate the trackless underground dirt-world, leaving a trail of particularly nice, rootless plants. Cheryl, who is a mythologist, and knows about these things, says this sort of ability is called metis, or cunning intelligence, possessed by only the most clever of the gods. So I also have expert testimony. But here is where my theory begins to break down.

Anciently, gnomes were thought to be guardians of the earth and its treasures. It was thought they could not only craft precious metals into stunning works of art, but tended to the growth of gems as they matured deep in the earth. They are old. Cheryl says they’re “older than dirt.” They predate many generations of gods. They’ve seen whole mythologies arise, develop, and vanish. Gnomes communicate directly with the root, the soul of Creation itself, and have done so since the world was hot. But gnomes are creators and craftsmen of the highest order, while gophers gnaw with sharp yellow teeth, maintain crude hoards of bulbs in their tunnels, and kill our plants. Gophers are not unpleasant in and of themselves, and we hold in common a liking for earth-dirt. But I suspect that my research will show them to be not much more than gnome wannabes. But science must prevail, so I need to keep my imaginings scientific and allow for the possibility of gophers-as-messengers.

Indeed, I resist admitting that gophers show courage in dealing with the dark, dirt world. For my part, I would rather stay with the soaring cloud-wind than entertain thoughts of deeply buried, inflamed nerves. But someone has got to go down there and clean things out for me, so I suspect I will have to depend on gophers, spiders, and snakes. My own imaginings like to soar through the heavens, past gateways of stars and clouds of music, where the cool smell on the wind can be swallowed whole. But things that go down, go inward, go deep, are dark, and potentially negative, if not threatening. Psychically, these are the characteristics of the interior soul, which dig and tunnel their way through much different climates. My imaginings are often reluctant to crawl though those cramped passages, only to find things I had hoped not to encounter again. At their worst they smell of inflammation, more often they smell of the earth and gophers. The light, that we think of as spirituality, is too often a delightful fiction. Soulful travel is a necessary and uncomfortable trip, understandable only though ambiguous metaphor. Maybe I need to have a talk with these gophers.

In the meantime, I strategically bury cat box litter in their tunnels. It seems, temporarily, to scare them into the neighbors’ yard.

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