Ants in the Cat Food: An Ant-Eye View

OK so they got into the cat food again. As I murdered them, I felt a brief, albeit powerful, pang of empathy for their plight. Not enough to cease and desist, however, just enough to write about it.

Here it is……..

It was a warm morning, the sun vainly trying to peek through the thin veil of fog. Just as quickly as a ray of light would pierce the shroud, ever so quickly did the moisture-laden air congeal around it, casting a presence of gloom over what should be a glorious day.

General Formicidae, the first general of the Colony, stood at attention, gazing at his formidable presence in the mirror image of a droplet of dew. Standing fierce, he exuded an air of confidence he hoped would infect his troops, already assembling on the tarmac.

“Today,” he thought, “is a good day to die.” He despised those thoughts, wishing only to complete his mission, save his troops, and return home to his lovely wife Hymenoptera.

Feeling movement down by his lower abdomen, the General looked down to see the affable Aardvark, his ever so trusty and faithful pet aphid. Aardvark knew nothing of battles, glory or victory. He simply existed to please. The General got down on all sixes and licked Aardvark on the tushy, just the way he liked it, and wistfully longed for a simpler life. But his destiny was set from the day he was born. And he would give his life willingly for queen and colony.

His wife joined him at the dew drop, the curves of her thorax, the ample abdomen, caused a lump in his throat. She had the exoskeleton of a goddess. He loved her now, as much, if not more, than when they first met, foraging through the food stores in the Land of the Great Red-Headed Human. That was two moons ago, and still he longed to be held in those giant mandibles, to feel the ecstasy of her talented antennae, to become interlocked as only multiple jointed creatures can know.

Hymenoptera stroked him lovingly with a single antenna, but remained silent. The air was thick with a grim foreboding, and words could not change that. He knew she loved him, and when the day was done, she would be here to hold him once again.

With a final gaze into her lateral and median ocellus, such limpid pools of azure, the General smartly turned about, and headed for the tarmac.

“Report!” he barked. A sergeant from intelligence scurried over to brief the General on the current status of the mission at hand.

“Scouts have come in from the north, reporting a huge cache of food, sir. It is deep within the lair of the Great Red Headed Human. We believe it is feline sustenance.”

‘Feline sustenance’, thought the General, ‘maybe even Meow Mix. Was that too much to hope for?’

“Sir”, said the sergeant. “We believe it is Meow Mix”.

“Very well sergeant, this mission is elevated to Bravo status. Alert all units in the field to proceed as ordered. Dawn is breaking soon, and we must be in and out before the Human knows we are there.” The General gave his orders. It was so simple. Sending thousands of ants to what would be certain death, if the Human woke. The General cut short his musings, and headed to the command bunker.

By 07:00 the supply chains had been established, the pathfinders had worked painstakingly to provide the markings for the workers to follow. From here to Point Charlie, the treasure trove was a perilous journey. Scaling curbs, walls, furniture. Braving the densest of hi-low carpet with nylon fibers. It was not a mission for the faint of heart.

The workers labored tirelessly, slicing the massive boulders of cat food into more manageable pieces, and then made their way back through the ranks of their brethren, carrying their bounty back to the colony.

“Sir, the feline has been alerted to the intrusion, but seems to be taking no action at this time,” the sergeant from the intelligence corps reported in.

“Good”, replied the General, “but it could alert the Human. Double time troops, we must accelerate our time table.” The General pushed hard—that’s what Generals do. But he knew the clock was ticking, that soon the great Red Headed Human would awake from his slumber, then awaken his offspring from her thunderous hibernation. Her lair was a mystery. No ant had ever returned coherent from that hellish place.

The stockpiles were building nicely, and the General thought, ‘Enough is enough.’
“Sergeant, recall the troops, our work is done here.” The General thought to err on the side of caution. Live today, forage tomorrow. The order to recall made it through the lines, right to the trough, and all were grabbing the last of their booty.

At 07:15 , their world exploded.

The forward scout felt a crushing blow to his thorax and rolled over on to his back, writhing in agony. He knew what had crushed his armored body, he had seen the symbols all throughout his enemy recognition training in boot camp. The circular patterns, the swirls and ridges, the flesh tone.

It was a fingerprint, and the last thing to go through the scouts mind as it was crushed effortlessly against the linoleum floor.

The Great Red Headed Human was awake. And he was pissed.

Chaos was the order of the moment as death and destruction reigned down from above. One by one, the giant finger of supreme punishments pummeled workers and soldiers alike. Death was not instant in many cases. The Human had too many targets to effect one hundred percent perfect kills. So many wounded just lay in the field, curled, crushed, pinched. As life slowly ebbed from their once proud bodies, they observed in their final moments, their own kind being destroyed. The Human was merciless.

Word quickly spread down the chain as the troops moved in to protect the workers, a futile gesture, but one rooted in symbolism. The soldiers protected the weak. The soldiers retrieved their wounded. And the soldiers died.

“Retreat, Retreat!” the General cursed himself for not withdrawing sooner.
The Great Red Headed Human would not rest until all of the intruders were destroyed. He was a cunning one, that Human.

“Break up the lines, spread out. Do not let the Human follow us to the colony.” That was now the battle order of the day. Scatter. Spread out. Run. Save the colony.

As long as the Human was only using the crude Death-by-Phalange method of execution, the General was confident of saving a good portion of his army. But that could not be counted on.

“Mission status Delta” commanded the General. Avoid the nest at all costs, create diversions, lead the murderous Human away from home.

Screams permeated the ambient noise of battle, flesh against ant. It was horrific. Medics were dispatched to the battlefield, but there was little they could do. A triage was set up in an alcove under the stove, where the wounded were tended to. Abdominal and thorax wounds were generally fatal, and a coup de grace was generally performed. The bodies were piling up, but the exodus was proceeding better than initially thought. Workers were abandoning their plunder and pouring through the openings in the floor, bent on escaping the horrible demise befalling their colleagues.

The sound of pure terror can permeate anything. Nothing can contain it, nothing can mask it. It is at a level and resonance that simply bypasses the hearing organs, and directly chills the soul. It starts as the sound of a soft wind, then grows in intensity until it resembles the sound of bludgeoning steam. The hiss of death. The ultimate in destruction.

RAID.

Industrial Strength Ant and Roach Killer. Ahh, the sweet and serene names the Humans give to their weapons. It may be music to their ears, but to the trampling hordes, it was hell in a can.

Screams filled the air, as one by one the deadly mist touched, caressed and tortured the tiny bodies into a contortion their own queen mother would never recognize.

“Sir, battlefield reports of gas being used on our troops. Casualties are at 70 percent”

The General surveyed the carnage, and wept inwardly, their deaths were his deaths. The Great Red Headed Human did indeed follow the masses, gleefully exacting his .0004 ounce of flesh, for him revenge was the dish of the day. He followed the masses spraying his aerosol cannons indiscriminately, taking out other species as well, not caring, just killing.

“Sir, we must pull back, it is too dangerous here”, the sergeant implored.

The general stood his ground. When the first round of poison mist touched his body, he fell to only four knees. Holding his head high, defiantly he shook a jointed limb at the Great Aggressor. Falling to his back the General thought of Hymenoptera, the love of his life. How he missed her terribly, longed to see her just one more time, to tell her that he loved her, and would cherish her always.

As he faded off forever, he saw that the sun indeed had broken through the mist, and golden rays were dancing across the earth.

“Today is a good day to die.”