The Ant Must Die!

I have a happy troop of ants exploring my bathroom. They emerge from an invisible crack in the floor, scurry up the side of the tub and disappear into the space where the chrome of my faucet meets the tub wall. I know they're happy by the way they visit with each other along the way, their little antenna touching their confreres as they pass each other on the way up or down.

Invasion by the tiny critters is typical for summers in our area. The year they showed up in my pantry I took drastic measures, cleaning, putting grains in airtight containers, and putting out ant traps. I don't mind them so much in the bathroom, unless they come out in force, moving up from a scouting expedition to a full platoon. I prefer not to kill them but when there are a whole stream scampering along the tub wall, I get a little grossed out and have to bring out the spray bottle.

I'll do a quick squirt, killing them on contact, then wipe them up with a tissue and flush the whole formerly happy troop down the toilet. Inevitably, there are a few stragglers who wander around in the wilderness calling, "Chet, Dave, where aaarrrrrreee yooooouuuuu?" Those left behind can't even find the scent trail left by their friends because it's been obscured by the deadly spray bottle. I feel so bad for them, weaving about in an aimless search pattern, no longer on the straight and narrow path where they were filled with purpose and a sense of mission. I know just how they feel.

With the loss of their companions, they can't find their way back to the nest or to whatever nirvana lurked behind my faucet. Usually I can only take so much ant anguish before I have to put the stragglers out of their misery, consoling myself that at least they will be rejoining their comrades in whatever passes for ant heaven.

Every time I kill the ants I remember the Buddhist monks somewhere in Asia who lived with an invasion of stinging, biting ants because they were unwilling to break their vows. My ants don't bite, they don't really do anything except share my home but I find myself unwilling to coexist peacefully when the black dots on my white tub become more of a black line. It's not that I don't like ants; I just want them to find another place to live, outside the walls of my house. I also don't appreciate being forced into confronting a moral dilemma every time I see them. My Buddhist-leaning spouse won't kill them and my daughter simply informs me about their existence, knowing that I will take care of it and make sure that all God's creatures are in their rightful place. By default I've become the enforcer, the hatchet man, the ant nemesis.

This is not a role I want. Heroes rarely want the role but are forced into it by circumstances and the unwillingness of others to step up. I'm the Department of Homeland security, wiping out suspected terrorists without needing the burden of proof of actual criminal activity. After all, there's a war on and sometimes we need to forget about the civil liberties of a few for the rest of us to be safe.