See this guy? I hate him. I've decided to direct my hatred towards him and his species instead of this house, my usual target. It's not the house's fault that these little buggers decide, once a year, to invade our habitat. I guess I should be thankful it's not a mouse, and we already know what happened to the last one that tried to become a member of our little family. Unfortunately, the cats don't kill ants. I am training Andrew to, though--although only IN the house, which is a difficult distinction for a mighty insect hunter to learn.
I guess I can't really blame the ants either. If you've seen the movie Antz, you know that the little hero goes in search of Insectopia, which turns out to be a trash can in a park, if I'm not mistaken. Well, Andrew the Crumbmeister General has created our own little smorgasboard. There's just no way to avoid it, and I apologize now to all you OCD sufferers for what I'm about to describe. I vacuum. I do. Just not daily. I can't, and I refuse. And to be honest, when I vaccuum, I don't pick things up or move them out of the way. Toys, for example. Andrew's toy corner hasn't moved in months, simply because there's too much crap piled on the shelves, beside the shelves, around the shelves. And couch cushions--oh what a find that would be for the queen and her minions.
But I digress. Thanks to these little jerks, instead of doing something productive or fun, I had to spend the afternoon cleaning out the kitchen cabinets. See, I discovered that the one or twelve little guys I had seen on the counter weren't just there by accident. They were trooping through a crack in the cabinets, all the way through the spice jars, around the cereal boxes, under the utensil tray, through another crack leading down the backsplash, and onto the counter, only to be squashed viciously by my flip-flop. Yes, my flip-flop. Yes, on the counter. Yes, I'll clean that too.
So, contents of said cabinetry strewn all over yon kitchen table, stressing me out to no end, who should arrive to save the day but my dad and his handy-dandy work van. He and his trusty caulk gun sealed up the offending cracks (there are more, but I'm going to give myself the illusion that the problem is solved), and I promptly sprayed the path they had been following in the hopes that any strays would die on contact.
They don't, though. Whatever navigation system the little bastards have just keeps sending them the signal to go that way. So the morons march up to where the hole used to be, look confused for a few minutes, then start walking in circles around the area, trying to figure it out. I wouldn't be surprised if they just walked into the cabinet wall repeatedly and bounced off like a wind-up toy, because that's how clueless they are. When all else fails, they turn and walk back across the kitchen floor the way they came, only to be smashed by Andrew and whatever weapon he finds handy. Eventually, I hope, all the foragers out on their mission will be killed, and there won't be any more traipsing through. For now, though, the cabinets are empty, and the table is full. I am armed with plenty of spray, several pairs of flip-flops, and an almost-four year-old boy who likes to hit things. And I will pretend that I don't know that these are carpenter ants who like to tunnel through moist, old wood, and who are quite probably, as I write this, just looking for another route to the buffet.