THE ANTS
by Tyger Valverde
Yesterday, the ants declared full-scale war.
They had been sending scouts to gather intelligence. I know, because I occasionally stepped on one, or picked up an object that was apparently under investigation.
We live in Texas. When I say ants, I mean fire ants. If you’ve ever had a run-in with fire ants, you know how vicious their bite is. So, when I stood in the bathroom and suddenly felt a sharp pain on my bare foot, I swore it was a fire ant, even without looking.
The scouts were busy for a couple of weeks. The CIA could learn much from their determined efficiency. Once they established entry points at all corners of the house, they disappeared to give report to their leaders.
While headquarters were devising battle strategies, they sent in the vanguard to set up supply lines. One line ran from the door to the cat food, and another one showed up out of no-where at the kitchen sink. At this point, I purchased a can of ant poison and began defensive maneuvers.
My first preemptive strike wiped out about five thousand vanguard troops. The rest scurried out to testify to the massacre. I cheered at the body count, and booby trapped their portals of entry with a heavy load of poison. I should have known my victory was short lived.
Of course, they used another entrance. They had it all planned out. This time, they made sure to hide their pathway and just showed up, cruising around in the cat’s food bowl. They must have come up beside the refrigerator, because when I set the bowl outside, they were still running in circles on the floor.
Not ready for full-scale extermination, I searched the yard for battlements. Sometimes, mounds are easy to spot, rising up from the ground a few inches, bare of all vegetation. But more often, the ants burrow deep, leaving barely a trail. On the package of fire ant granules it says to cover the mound and a six-foot area around it, and soak it all down with a hose. I followed instructions to the T, wherever I spotted the slightest growth disturbance in the lawn. I must have sweated out there all day in one hundred degree weather.
Nothing happened. The ants still busily marched in and out of my kitchen, carrying off food particles and chewing up my hands and feet if I tried to intercept them. I knocked off another supply train with spray, but the ants were replaced as quickly as I killed them. Incoming troops didn’t even bother to retrieve their dead. I began to worry. This was no small army. And I still hadn’t located headquarters.
When I caught them scrambling all over my dinner table, I had enough. I called the exterminator. This was on a Thursday, and he was booked up for the week. Because of the intensity of my pleas, he agreed to schedule us for Monday for a small markup. I’m not even sure that’s legal, but at this point, I was beyond caring.
They must have heard me talk. I don’t know how they translated my phone conversation into “Ant”, but they knew what I was up to. They used all of Friday to strategize. Yesterday afternoon, they attacked.
They took the kitchen by storm. I was bitten at least twenty times trying to get to the poison, which was stored – you guessed it – by the kitchen sink. If you still think I was fighting mere animals, you are missing the point. The thousands of ants that flooded my kitchen were likely part of a higher intelligence. Individual brain cells on tiny feet, each represented particles of a super hive-brain with the ferocity of a horde of Vikings. I’ve seen this before: A hundred ants crawl up your pants leg without your knowledge, until suddenly, they all bite at once.
I battled half of the night until I won back my kitchen. The house stank from poison and dead ants, but I couldn’t open the windows for fear they’d send re-enforcements. By two o’clock, there wasn’t an ant leg twitching, so I felt safe to go to bed. My mistake.
It’s impossible to get an exterminator on a Sunday morning, even in an emergency. Worse, I am at the hospital today, getting treated for anaphylactic shock. The ants found my bed last night and exacted vengeance. As is their way, they waited until they covered me, before they bit down. There must have been thousands of them between my sheets.
Although I was out of bed in less than a second, I stood screaming in the shower for at least ten minutes, trying to wash them off. I had the presence of mind to dial 9-1-1 before I started swelling. By the time I arrived at the hospital, I was wheezing precariously.
I’ll be in here for a day or two for observation and treatment, but I can’t wait to get out. A couple of sticks of dynamite should permanently solve my problem. If I can’t live in my house, neither will the fire ants!
I hear there are lovely properties for sale in upstate New York, rich, green lawns and sturdy stone houses shaded by lovely oaks and elms. And I don’t think anyone has ever seen nor heard of a fire ant in Yankee land. Battle-hardened as I am, I might even find work as an exterminator. With my experience, I can handle a few wimpy sugar ants.
I’m a Southerner, and I’m proud to say it. I would never turncoat for ordinary reasons. But, come on! Outnumbered and outgunned, I couldn’t stand up to such heavy odds. My loyalty crumbled only under extreme pressure.
It’s futile anyway. All of it. Why worry about loyalties? Or the state of the nation? About global warming, or dwindling natural resources? One day it will all belong to the fire ants anyway. Trust me, they are already plotting.
Tyger Valverde is a freelance writer and is currently working on a full length novel, a collection of adult fairy tales and a poetry collection. She also contributes to a blog at
