I spent vast swaths of Saturday ripping up my front yard in preparation for a minor landscaping project. With each shovelful of rock and topsoil I tore from the earth, I exposed hundreds of swarming, panicky ants.
While they didn’t, as Simpsons would have us believe, run around screaming, “Protect the Queen!” they were clearly pretty freaked out. And who can blame them? You’re puttering around in the colony, maybe snacking on a micron of Cheeze-Puff waiting for the game to come on, and SUDDENLY THE ROOF IS GONE! Blinding, burning sunlight pours in. The tunnels are collapsing around you. And your life as you’ve known it is over.
I finished the project on Sunday, replacing most of the dirt and rocks. I hope the ants are able to rebuild their colonies. But even if they do, you just know the survivors of my attack will suffer all kinds of post-traumatic stress. For the rest of their lives, their sleep will be interrupted with nightmares of giant pink fingers jabbing at them through the soil.
