This morning between the sink and the kitchen trash, I angrily smashed an ant scooting across our counter. They get in through a crack in the metal molding around those windows that give out to a good view.
I see the same ants outside every time I walk across a line of them on the slate-covered pathway to the laundry and workshop. I place my feet carefully there; in what should be their natural habitat, ants seem admirably cooperative and industrious.
That same admiration does not hold inside, though. The ants' presence in the kitchen waxes and wanes, but lately has increased to past the point of aggravation. Their miniscule blackish bodies seem to come alive and increase in number the longer I stare at them swarming over the deep cerulean counter. Freaky.
And I should mention that we keep a very clean place.
About the only other pest upon which I purposefully impress my top-of-the-food-chain prerogative is a cockroach, which admittedly can be a little bit intimidating the way the dart out at you and scramble frantically for a dark corner, hopefully not up your pants.
On the other hand, it's nothing but fun clearing a path in the patio to walk through a swarm of bobos (similar to what we used to call no see'ums the way they get in your eyes and ears). To do the job I use one of those electrified racquets that give a satisfying sizzle and pop when it hits a critter, along with the thrill of a mini-fireburst as the tiny being incinerates. Afterwards, for a split second, I feel thoughtless and sadistic but that mostly passes.
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