Ants
At last I have found a pet (or pets, to be more precise) that I can love and care for but which won’t dominate my life. A cat or dog needs constant attention. Ants don’t. A cat or a dog needs a kennel or cattery when you go on holiday. Ants don’t. A cat or dog needs feeding and watering every few hours. Ants don’t. They don’t need taking to the vet, nor are you distraught when one dies as there are always more. And I don’t mean keeping them in a glass tank such as you see in the zoo. Ants are free and fiercely independent creatures whose natural dignity would be curtailed were they kept trapped in some cruel enclosure. No, my ants feel the refreshing wind of freedom on their tiny little faces in the morning. They travel hither and thither or wheresoever they would go. They are constrained in no way by me.
They first entered my life as little black spots scurrying around outside my bedroom door. I am ashamed to say, my immediate response was to exterminate. Early conditioning is to blame. Then I thought why, in this continent where death is cheap, why fall into the easy trap of destroying what I don’t like? Why spuriously destroy something you cannot replace. Ants are small and intricately made. They are a miracle of creation. They are well organised and cooperative. They march in lines in their constant search for food. One line travels out of the garage, another meets it going in the opposite direction. There is a moment of confusion , then they go on their way. They carry neither food nor bottles of water.
At the moment, their favourite footpath is into our shower. They enter through a crack in the ceiling and parade in close formation over the white tiles to the hot tap and spend some seconds exploring this before retracing their steps to the crack in the ceiling. They are playful little things. Sometimes when the shower splashes them they bravely hurl themselves off the wall like cliff divers, and have a little splash around in the puddles on the floor. Their comic antics are a joy to watch.
The main problem is finding names for them all. I tried doing it systematically, starting with Aaron and ending with Zebedee but I soon ran out. Maybe I need to get hold of a “Naming Baby” book. Another alternative would be to call them all Anthony with a number. For example, we would have Anthony 1, Anthony 2 etc. You can see what I mean. But I thought the numbers would dehumanise them (or should that be “de-anticise”). You will appreciate that apart from “antics”, I have been very sparing with the “ant” puns. I didn’t want it to be silly.
Most people do not realise how affectionate these little creatures are. I often feel them playfully tickling my legs, as they make their way up to my knees. They like sky-diving but are nervously reluctant to make the initial leap. I help them out, and with a chuckle and a flick send them into what for them must be the stratosphere and earthward again. They are so intrepid they do this without a parachute.
They love my company. Only last night Peter, or was it Mabel (I still have trouble recognising them) came scurrying over my laptop keyboard wanting to play. Luckily, I needed a “q” rather than a “w” and a catastrophe was averted. I was cross but relieved. With a puff of breathe I sent it flying to bed with a flea in its antenna. They don’t realise how dangerous it is out there alone at night.
Oh, horror. I’ve found a pot of “Doom Powder, Kills Crawling Insects on Contact” on the window sill in the toilet. I fear it is already too late. I have discovered tell-tale signs of white powder in the cracks in the shower and it’s not talcum powder. My little friends are no more. Bath time will never be so much fun again. I shall have to shower alone.