But Soon They Slow

Waking up to a slaughter, is no way to rise.  No one wants to commit mass murder first thing in the morning.  But when I go to the kitchen and pull out the grapefruit juice and turn to get a cup from off the shelf, and notice that the sink has become a stage set involving one hundred marching ants, I presented with a call-to-duty.

Reaching beneath the sink I pull up my weapon of choice, a spray bottle with five parts water, one part dishwashing liquid.  Like the Allies and the Axis powers during the Great War, I’ve found that chemical warfare is rather efficient for mass slaughter.  I spritz the entire area and all the possible access points and even all the areas that had evidenced ant activity last week or the week before.  There are more toxic things one could use but dishwashing liquid seems an unassuming ‘chemical’ to employ in the kitchen area. 

At first it doesn’t stop the ants.  But soon they slow.  It can’t be good for them.  They die.  I clean them up and yes, I feel sorry for them.  I warn them, as if they couldn’t hear that this is not a safe house to return to.  They should tell folks at the nest to head elsewhere for foraging.  This place will only yield soap and more soap.  They can’t communicate with me, but they are sentient.  And because of me, they have all expired this morning.  A moment of silence then, for all the ants who no longer walk my kitchen sink area. 

The flat on my bike is fixed.  I ride my bike over to the gym.  I spy the imposing German Shepherd in the field and the rows of cultivation that I’d missed, back behind the tree cover beside the road.  Iggy is arguing with someone in the crowd, up in my ears: “You think you’re bad man?  You think you’re bad?”  A woman on a bike with much bigger tires than mine, effortlessly passes me by.  Suddenly the pace I was traveling at isn’t fast enough.  This is supposed to be my cardio.  I quicken my peddling. 

Sunday 6/03/18