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.