"No trouble," I ignorantly thought, as I went back into my room.
When I returned the following evening I found that they had multiplied, and that their object had been my coffee and sugar supply. I opened to cabinet and revealed more ants scurrying through an almost full bag of H-E-B sugar and Folgers' Brazilian Sunrise.
I was filled with such pain an anguish as a grabbed the bags and tossed them into the trash can, and all cappuccino appointments for that evening would have to be rescheduled.
But the invaders took advantage of my growing ignorance and when I came back in the afternoon they had expanded from the cabinet into the kitchen and living room walls and left a trail to the front door. I've never been one for murder. In fact, I've never even fired a gun. But at that moment I knew something had to be done.
Co-Existence was not an option.
I asked 30 people for bug spray and no one had any. I began to think that my premeditated murders were inhumane, but every time I pondered on the events I pressed on for poison. They would surely continue their expansion unless someone stood up to them. I purchased a can of "country scented" spray and a Route 44 blue coconut slushy from Sonic.I opened the doors and windows, hid the dog, covered my face with a rag and begin the killing spree.
I started at the point of entry near the front door to be sure that any retreating forces would have no where to run. I then sprayed individual clusters of ants, and continued until I was sniping one at a time. I watched as the poison destroyed their nervous systems and caused them to fall to floor to a horrific death. Some of them stopped moving when they realized what was taking place, but they met the country scent as well.
At least 100 ants were slain by my trigger finger and i'm not proud of it. I washed my hands of their blood as Lionel Richie's "Hello" played on my I-tunes. I would rather have not killed them, as I'm certain they didn't prefer the death. But it happened. What's done is done. I tried masking the cheap country scent with my Brazilian Samba Frebreeze spray, but no amount of aroma could take away the memories of the battle field. Those ants were dead, and now I would clean up their corpses with a tiny broom and dustpan.
Survival of the fittest? No. I just need my caffeine.