Summer Visitors

Every spring we are invaded by uninvited visitors. Usually they are the tiny, reddish variety that show up early in the spring and leave a few weeks later. But this year their cousins from the 'hood showed up and decided to stay. At first we were shocked and disgusted and quickly dispatched every one we saw -- until we realized that it wasn't making a difference. I think word got out that our kitchen was Ant Nirvana, and every faithful black ant on the block was required to make the pilgrimage to our countertop. Not that I blame them. Most of the time the scraps are readily available and there is plenty of clutter to hide behind and underneath. And, to be honest, we've become accustomed to them. We no longer gasp when we see them crawl out from under a jar or a bowl. We merely brush them out of the way, rather than squishing them. The other day I was standing at the kitchen sink drinking a glass of water while resting my hand on the counter, and one boldly began crawling up my hand. I calmly considered it, then simply blew it off my finger into the sink. I didn't even turn on the water and rinse it down the drain. Why bother? More will just come to replace it. It's like trying to pull out every gray hair you find. When they first arrived, Onias (my 4-year-old grandson) was terrified of them, shrieking and crying when he saw one. Now he actually likes them and calls them his friends. And really, they don't eat much, and they don't bite. I thought about naming them -- like Vinnie or Mac or Frankie. But I knew that wouldn't work, because they all look the same to me, and I knew they wouldn't come when I called them, anyway.

Yesterday S. made some type of pumpkin-pudding pie, and I had set the pie pan on the counter in order to scoop some of the contents onto a plate. When I lifted the plate I saw this strange little formation of ants -- they were in a type of circle, about six or seven of them, heads inward, surrounding this small piece of watermelon on the counter. Now, I know that ants can carry many times their own weight, but they weren't making any effort to carry this. Maybe they couldn't agree on who would carry it home, so they just decided to stay there and eat it. After all, they'd been working hard all day long -- they deserved a break. And Vinnie would never need to know. Once I lifted the plate and exposed them to the light, they scattered in all directions -- some into the silverware drawer, some under the dishes draining on the counter, some into the sink. It reminded me of a huddle of basketball players right before the game. Someone yells, "Let's go!" and they scatter in all directions. I didn't even try to catch them. Why bother? Besides, none of them scattered to my bowl of pie, so it was OK.

Then, when I lifted the pie pan to put it back in the fridge, I saw him. The one that got left behind. He was frantically trying to crawl and find the rest of his unit, but it seemed that only his front legs were working. His antennae were going crazy trying to pick up the signals from his buddies, and his front legs were struggling to go somewhere, but he wasn't making much progress. He didn't look smashed, but his four back legs were just dragging, like a little ant quadraplegic. I must have set the pie pan down on top of him and injured him. He soon found his way to safety under the fold of a towel on the counter. I thought about lifting it up to see how he was doing, but I decided to allow him at least a little dignity. He was gone today, so his friends must have come back and rescued him -- or eaten him. And I was a little annoyed that an ant -- an uninvited visitor in my kitchen, a scavenger, a pest -- had elicited such feelings of guilt in me. After all, it wasn't my fault he was in the path of my pie pan. It's my counter, and I shouldn't have to watch for rogue ants before setting a plate down. I shouldn't be haunted with the memory of a paralyzed ant trying to drag itself to safety. I am not the enemy here!

So I hired a hit man. He guarantees the entire colony will be eliminated -- for only $3.42. It's nothing personal, Frankie. It never would have worked out between us.