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How thankful I am that the baby was crying. When things are bad… remember that it could be worse.
The story you are about to read is true. The names have been changed to protect the innocent.
This is the city – Houston, Texas. Home to 2.2 million people, dispersed over an area of 600 square miles, Houston squarely ranks as one of the greatest cities in America to live.
It was Saturday, August 16th, and we were working the night watch out of our home. In fact, we were trying to sleep. Cassie had been fairly easy to handle that night… no particular issues. My parter, Liane Gannon, was in and out of sleep.
5:13AM – The child decided that life was no longer tolerable without food. A bottle would need to be made in order to sustain his sleepy state. In my usual fashion, I began my brief ritual of waking while my partner kicked at me and moaned unintelligibly.
5:27AM – Still somewhat distant to the world, I took the baby and stood. My right foot planted firmly on the floor and my left stepping onto a pair of shorts which I had so carelessly discarded to the floor on an earlier day. Then I made my way into our living room.
Part way there, I noticed a prickling sensation on my left foot — the type you might receive when it is asleep. Shortly after, my foot felt as if on fire.
Brushing my hand over my foot, my fingers reported the distinctive sensation of several smooth granuals — the type of granuals that have six legs attached.
My heart began to race as I found the light switch, the burn in my foot increasing. Now lit, I could see no fewer than a dozen ants with their jaws burried into my skin. Two seconds, and they all lay decapitated on the rug. My baby, whom I had set down carefully (!), was now hungry and (HORROR!) not being held — a felony in all 50 states.
Storming back into my room, I ignited the incadecents, much to the great displeasure of my partner Gannon. There, on the shorts in which I had stepped, were numerous angry ants.
Panic swept into my bones. This couldn’t be all.
I snatched up the shorts and moved them, releasing quickly before any aggressors attempt to lock their mandibles of death into my fingers. Suddenly, the floor was alive with activity. Under my shorts were no fewer than 500 fire ants, all bent on destroying my peaceful Saturday morning!
Another pair of shorts lay next to the first (yes… I wore them both they day previous… sue me). Tossing them aside, another cauldron burst forth, releasing several hundred more ants. My mind raced, albeit more slowly than my hand. Grabbing the ant spray, which conveniently I had chosen to keep in my bedroom, I fell to the grip of Fear, Anger, Hate, and eventually the Dark Side. DIE!!!!!!!!!
Liquid penetrated their breathing holes, filling their lung-type-things with poison. Now I know that the Geneva Convention has condemned chemical warfare between signatories, but ants did not sign the accords. Consequently, I sprayed, took no prisoners of war, and would even have resorted to torture if it would have provided any useful information.
My foot ached over the next three hours as I executed with prejudice over 2,000 ants in my bedroom. I am not exaggerating this figure. They were under the bed, behind furniture, and (this was the kicker) hiding in my baby’s clothing.
Tracing them through the room, I found their path of entry and poisoned it. For two weeks, I have not found another ant in my room.
For those interested in methods of burial, it should be noted that I did not follow the detestible and desecratory act of mass burial. Each ant was given his own respectful place of eternal rest — in my vacuum.
Even as I write this, I have had to scratch my itching foot (or as those in the South would say, “itch my scratching foot”). While this classifies as my second-worst encounter with these wretched creatures, it could have been vastly worse than anything I can remember. Had I not been taking the baby into the kitchen for a bottle, I would have put those shorts on.
