The kitchen. I can’t believe I’m still in the kitchen.
It’s humid: the air lies on my skin like a wet dish towel and I’m not sure I’m still breathing. Kneeling down behind the oven, the sweat coats my face in a sheen of grease leaving me desperate for a drink of water and wondering where my air support is.
The ants and I are at war again. I’m pinned down in the kitchen, my last 2 cans of Raid spray running on empty. And I’m alone in my fight since a garrison of ants carried the cat away while singing “High Hopes”. I can still hear Phantom’s plaintive meowing: “No! This isn’t my war! I just want to eat and nap!”
I had arranged for a bombing run from a rogue hive of yellow jackets but it looks like I’ve been double-crossed. My entreaties to the feral cats in the alley were met with sneers after they found out how many times I’ve taken my own cat to the vet. One of them crapped in my garden on their way home as a final middle finger.
About an hour ago I heard noises. When I peeked around the oven I saw the ants dismantling my dining room table and chairs then re-engineering the pieces into a crude trebuchet. I believe squares of my kitchen tile will soon be whizzing at my head. I’m going to have to launch an offensive of my own before they start their attack.
I’m strapping a broom and a mop to my back and turning my spray cans to full automatic. I have to make my charge now. I can hear ordnance being loaded into their siege engine. If I don’t make it, will someone rescue my cat from the P.O.W. camp? He was right. This is my war and he doesn’t deserve to suffer without his treats.
Cry Havoc! And let slip the dogs of war!