Devil Ants

Devil Ants

I have ants. I imagine they appear to me much as we appear to God—tiny specks of life, meandering around His nice clean world, getting into everything and not accomplishing anything of note—except, perhaps, annoying Him immensely. So I am playing God this week in my own little universe of house and home. I have the power of life and death—and let me tell you, I am leaning very heavily towards death for these little usurpers of my territory. I hope God is not watching and getting any ideas.

It’s not that I enjoy the massacre. I’ve done my best to kindly discourage them. I have moved my plants outside, lest they find safe harbor in the pots. I meticulously remove all traces of food from the counters, and pick up Jake’s food dish before he’s quite finished, much to his annoyance. It does no good. My worst moment was finding them marching in orderly rows down the length of the rug in the dining room, minutes before guests arrived for a wine-tasting. I lapsed into death-squad mode, sprayed them to oblivion and wiped up the carcasses with a soapy paper towel.

I find myself constantly scanning, like the cyborgs in The Terminator—searching for signs of motion on the cabinets, floor, or countertops that will trigger my destructive power. My table-setting routine now includes close scrutiny of every plate, spoon, and cup—which, I am sure, makes me look slightly feeble-minded: as if every detail of the process requires serious thought. Which it does, for the ant-obsessed. For me. I spy a single ant on the countertop and move mindlessly, as if programmed, into yet another search-and-destroy mission. JC has taken to grabbing his plate and retreating upstairs to dine, while I sterilize the kitchen for the twentieth time that day.

No place is safe. Sink, counter, wall, and floor are equal-opportunity ant paths. I find them in the bathroom, crawling up the wall, singly or in pairs. Or in the bathtub, for no apparent reason. They swarm in the cat’s food, or climb the cords to the blinds in the kitchen window as I wash the dishes They are omnipresent. My nightmare is opening a canister or a cereal box and finding them there on a colony-wide ant picnic. Apparently, the ant holiday schedule is not yet in effect, though it could start at any moment, I fear. I seal everything in plastic bags, whose zip-locks are (one hopes) ant-proof.

I’m trying to glean a deeper lesson from this infestation, but it’s tough going. Ants are like bad habits. Ants are like that ten pounds I’m trying to lose, like the weeds in my patio, like dirty laundry, or unpaid bills. ANTS ARE LIKE THE DEVIL. With enough effort, you can beat him into submission for a while; but, just when you think you’re free of him, when you start to feel comfortable in your own virtue, he’s back with a vengeance. Even when you can’t see him, you know he’s there, just waiting for you to let down your guard, to relax, to start believing that you’re safe. Ants are like that. They never really go away.

And therein lies the problem: the relentlessness of it all. I think this is the way it must have been to be Custer at the Little Big Horn…no matter how many troops are mown down, there’s another battalion swarming over the ridge, ready to take up the fight. Or perhaps, it’s like being a saint, constantly in combat for your immortal soul. It seems as if you are bound to lose, if only because they’ve worn you down and broken your spirit. There is always one more ant.

And yet, today, I say unto you: salvation is in sight. No cross, no thorny crown, no passion-- just Mr.Pest Control in his big white van. He brought his sprays, his potions, his magic dust and exorcised my house of its six-legged demons. I have renounced ants and all their works. I have fought the good fight and won the battle --with a 90 day guarantee, no less.

Forgive me, but in this situation, I’m praying there’s no resurrection.

Jake

For anyone who ever reads anything I write on my blog, or on Facebook, you know all about Jake. Jake is my incorrigible cat, who has been documented in innumerable photos over the past 12 years--usually in strange places and/or positions. As one friend commented, "If I fits, I sits." That was Jake's motto from day one.

There are a bunch of stories that Jake has figured in over the years. Just recently, I related one where he alerted to something we hadn't noticed: a squirrel swimming for his life in an ice tub on our patio. (We saved the squirrel) Another was a photo-story of Jake's love/hate relationship with Carlotta-- a neighborhood cat/seductress who would tempt Jake at our living room window till he was jumping out of his skin. Yet, when he pressed his nose against the window, she hissed at him and walked away. Love was cruel.

He used to hide behind the screen of my laptop and try to catch my fingers as I typed. When a photographer came from the Washington Post, no less, to photograph me for an article on my appointment as poet laureate, Jake decided that he should be featured. As I posed in front of an impressive bookcase, Jake slipped into the room and leapt to the shelf behind me. The photographer cried, "Yes! Yes! Perfect!" and snapped the picture. Need I say who looked best in that shot?

In any case, it has always been clear who was running things in our house. Whether it was catering to his finicky tastes, disguising his medicine in crab or shrimp, or figuring out who had first claim to the real estate at the foot of the bed,  we generally knew Jake would have his way.

And now...now,  Jake isn't himself anymore. He does a lot of sleeping, very little eating, and a lot of throwing up. The vet says he has cancer, and the sonogram backs her up. He has had a shot of steroids that makes him a bit more comfortable, and he is eating, at least today. But we all know this is temporary. We brought him home for the weekend, but have decided that the kindest thing we can do for Jake is to let him go. Life is not so great for him now, and it only promises to get worse. I love him enough not to want that for him.

So, until his appointment on Tuesday, he has unlimited access to my lap, a place near my feet in the bed, as much shrimp he can eat--and I won't even yell at him as he criss-crosses his way down the steps in front of me in the morning. I'll miss him.

(And this is one of his poems..and a couple pictures. I'm still looking for the one in the crockpot, and so many more. He should have his own album.)

Working from Home

Today, when the office-bound

embark on their trek through

a wilderness of cars,

I grab a cup of tea and head for my first meeting.

Jake (my silent partner) and I

evaluate the tasks for the day

and devise a plan of action.

 

deal with the financials,

communicate with principals,

assess the status and needs

of ongoing projects

and alter timelines as needed.

Jake naps.

Today, when the office-bound

work through lunch,

scrambling to meet deadlines,

Jake and I move on to

supply and maintenance,

taking inventory, making lists,

selecting and transporting,

applying new techniques

and old-fashioned effort

to the job.

At least, I do. Jake gazes out the window,

considering product development:

the invention of a squirrel repellent,

or an electrified birdbath

to annihilate the competition.

This evening, while the office folk

celebrate productive days,

take stock of losses,

and plot tomorrow’s course

at various happy-hours,

Jake and I, in our well-ordered house,

consider our accomplishments  

and congratulate ourselves

on jobs well-done:

he with Friskies Party Mix,

me with my glass of wine.