"Oh, I’m sorry Doggies. I forgot to feed you earlier. Well, let’s get you some foodies," I bantered to our two beautiful mutts, Jessie and Billy. I always talk to them, and I swear they understand. I measured their servings and stepped out to the patio, the two of them dancing around me excited and impatient. I spied their bowl, but it still had food in it from yesterday. Hmm, what’s up with that, I thought? Moving, undulating in the darkness of night, I spied something amiss, something sinister.
ANTS, big biting ones, were swarming over the food and around the bowls. I reached in to see if I could it pick up to move it away or something. Ouch ouch ouch, I got bit all over, stupid, argh, ouch, damn you, ants! That’s gonna leave a mark. I am continually fascinated with ants and how they collaborate, find, and devour, but this time they had gone too far.
Now, being who I am, I hate to waste perfectly good doggie food, but how to separate it from the ants without being eaten alive. Jessie, impatient, circled her bowl looking for an opening. The poor dear must have been so hungry. Will you ever forgive me? She decided to risk it and before I could shoo her away, she tried to take a bite and recoiled instantly. Ooo, you bit my dog, you bit my dog. For that YOU SHALL DIE! I practiced my action hero voice. "One man, two dogs, a swarm of ants — this time it’s personal. COMING SUMMER 2006"
Bring in the nukes.
I ran inside, grabbed a plastic seal-able container and quickly transferred the ant/food contents to it. As I was fumbling around in the kitchen, Jessie and Billy were barking in their typical communicative fashion. "Are you done yet?"
"No," I answered. "Just a second, I’m almost done. Hold your horses." They’d wait 15 seconds patiently. This is considered a great feat in the culture of the dogs, an eternity for their kind, an honor bestowed only upon the bearer of food.
"Arf, arf arf. Now?"
"Just a second."
15 seconds of silence.
"Arf arf arf? Now?"
"Almost there, just a sec." I opened the door to the microwave, placed the angry angry swarming ants inside, and pressed start. One and half minutes later I was met with the smell of fresh ant surprise, a mini lobster dish for my doggies, in fact a gourmet meal, not a dish served cold as proper revenge dictates, but a dish served hot, flavored with the succulent bodies of our former adversaries.
The microwave beeped completion, and Ms Jessie and Mr. Billy could no longer contain their gentile behavior. All bets were off.
"Here I come," I said, as an explosion of frantic leaping and spinning ensued. "Now you enjoy that. I’m sorry for the inconvenience. I’ll not let those ants get you again. You just feast on their carcasses. Buen provecho."