Ant Wars Redux

So the ants now have control of my kitchen cupboard. My food sits in a box on the dining room table like I’m a transient waiting out another day of ennui at the bus station while holding pathological conversations with invisible rabbits. The cat is back. And holding a grudge. We’ve developed a tense relationship where I feed him and he spits invective back to me as payment rendered. I’ve also seen a few ants in the kitchen sink. Those I took care of with my secret weapon they call “The Hammer of God”. I refer to it as my index finger.

Friday night when I got home from work I dug the potato chips out of my hobo box-o-vittles and walked to my desk in the living room. As I sat down to turn on my laptop I saw an ant on the desk. Dispatching him I swore aloud and wondered where he had come from. Then I see one in the carpet. Grabbing a flashlight and ignoring the cat’s guffaws I traced their main grouping to a small garbage can a few feet away from the desk.

When I shone the flashlight for a closer look I saw that the ants had converted the base of the wooden trash bucket into a night club, “Chez Tissue Paper with Glaze from a Donut Still on It”. For a nominal cover charge the ants were allowed in to crawl over the old donut paper I had stupidly thrown in the trash. After gorging themselves they stayed for $1 jello shooters and the dance stylings of Trixie, known to have the biggest thorax in the tri-state area.

I tried talking to the door-ant but he got belligerent with me: Something about my name not being on the list and “please move behind the velvet rope before I call security”. He wasn’t so tough after I brought out The Hammer, quickly calling for the club manager. Soon I was introduced to Rick. “Great,” I thought, “an ant that’s seen Casablanca.” Rick informed me that he was the owner and proprietor of dozens of after-hours clubs throughout my neighborhood. I told him I didn’t care about the others, but this one had to shut down.

The bribes began with some miniscule morsels of cookie. After I pointed out that I had an entire bag of cookies Rick attempted to subtly get the location from me by saying, “Soooo, where do you keep this bag of cookies?” He tried to cover up his clumsiness with a quick offer of a night out with Trixie and her double jointed friend Honey Larue. For the next hour or so I had to explain to Rick the impossibilities of inter-species mating with charts, graphs and a quickly thrown together power point presentation.

Given no other choice I brought out the Hammer of God, however, Rick rallied his troops and began an attack whose main tactic was for the ants to run in all directions screaming hysterically, “Save the glaze! Save the glaze!” My index finger wasn’t doing enough damage so I had to deploy the Ducha del Muerte, the Shower of Death, otherwise known as my can of Raid spray.

My living room is now ant free. This was the costliest battle yet as far as ant casualties but I know they’ll be back. They are an enemy that doesn’t give up easily. The cat and I gave the honored dead a proper burial. They are at rest in my vacuum cleaner bag.

I will now hum taps . . .

Ant Wars 2010

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!