We have ants. It’s not the kind of ant that makes tapioca pudding or gives you amateur haircuts. It’s the kind that crawls all over the kitchen counter looking for minuscule crumbs.
I’m a live-and-let-live kind of guy. I don’t like to squash a bug unless it’s necessary. I’ve killed my fair share of creepy crawlies but I don’t do it unless they bite me.
I don’t want these ants to think they are welcome at our smorgasbord. I was doing dishes when I saw the first little speck moving in to examine the menu. I squashed him. I didn’t want him to have a chance to call his friends.
Unfortunately, there was a witness to my crime. My nine-year-old, creature-loving daughter went crazy. “What did he ever do to you! I can’t believe you murdered that ant!” I delicately carried the next seven ants to the backyard. Somebody must have printed some maps. They had no problem finding the way back to my counter.