We have been invaded by ants. Crawly, black, awful, disgusting, hateful, stupid ants! Every spring we get a few on the kitchen floor that are easily taken care of with some properly positioned poison. But this year something else is going on. And although they’re not nearly as big as the giant irradiated ants of the 1954 horror classic Them!, they are plentiful enough to be troublesome.
We are trying to find the colony where they’re hiding that pesky queen and it’s proving difficult because they will feed happily on the poison and then just wander around aimlessly. It’s pointless to watch them to try to see where they go. Last night I tip-toed around about a dozen of the little creepy-crawlies to start laundry while they feasted on a Borax-infused sugar substance that they are supposed to take home and share with their kin. And then like magic, everybody dies. But it’s no good unless you find out where they are and can help the killing spree along.
And there’s the concern about the cat getting into the lethal liquid so I have to mop it up at some point and just let the ants crawl around willy nilly. It goes against every ant squishing instinct I have!
I put a call in to a pest control company but they didn’t even call me back. Hubby searched with his high-intensity flashlight and we came up with a theory that involves everything these tiny evil-doers love: moist wood, a secret lair and a reasonably close food source. But we can’t investigate until Sunday so, until then, the rules are, no bare feet in the basement and no squishing ants because they’re helping to carry out our mission. And that mission is mass murder!