Ants Ants Ants

So here’s how I know I’m a grown up now:

I love Ned. Pretty much unconditionally at this point. Let’s forget about the way he looks at me like a baby Ewok. (Seriously, I’m considering getting him a little spear and an orange hoodie. The pooch is the spitting image of Wickett.) Let’s forget about the way he belly-flops on the hardwood floors when he attacks his tennis ball, and let’s forget about the cute way he rolls over on his back and wiggles both his front paws at me to scratch his belly. Let’s forget about the embarrassing plethora of nicknames I’ve developed for him, including Nedders, Neddles, Neddykins, Sir Neddingham or Professor Nedison. Let’s forget all about how he runs circles around my feet when he knows it’s dinner time, and let’s definitely forget about how I was reduced to tears of relief and joy by solid poop, people! Because god knows I would never forgive myself if puppy had continued to have diarrhea, got dehydrated and died! Could NEVER HAVE LIVED WITH MYSELF! How I really know I’m all grown up has to do with ants.

Last month, I put Ned out on the front lawn just before bedtime. He does his business, sniffs around the lawn for a bit, flops down on the dew to cool himself off, and puppy-flops towards me to be taken inside. We go up to my room and I deposit him in his cage and get ready for bed myself. Lights out, all appears normal.

Scritch, scritch, scritch. Scratch, scratch, scratch. Plaintive whimpering.

Oh, dude, Ned, no. It’s BEDTIME. Go to sleep.

The vet has told me that shih-tzus are a wilful breed, and that in order to prove that I am the boss I should ignore Ned’s whimpering because he’ll just do it for attention. So I dutifully follow the vet’s advice. I thought I was being a good mom. I sleep fitfully for a few hours, because I can hear the little critter being restless in his cage from time-to-time. Pace, pace, pace. Pant, pant, pant. Scritch, scritch, scritch. WHIIIIIIIIIIIIINE!

Oh, dude, Ned. What the hell is your problem? I’m EXHAUSTED!

3AM. I give up. Irritated, I flop out of bed, open the cage door and drag puppy down to the lawn again. He dribbles a bit of pee, and then turns towards me, and cocks his head as if to say “Um, now what?”

For that?! For that you got me out of bed at 3AM?! Oh, this is not a game I’m willing to play, puppy.

I scoop him up off the lawn and drag him back upstairs to bed. Door on the cage slams shut and I drop back into bed. Before I scoop the covers back over me, I notice a single, solitary ant crawling on my leg. Poor little critter, I think to myself and then smack it dead and turn the light off. Phew. Darkness. Sweet relief.

Except…

Sting. Ow. Slap. What the hell? Tickle, tickle, tickle. Sting. Slap. Ouch. I scritch-scratch my ankles together. Clearly, my imagination is over-active. Stupid puppy woke me up. Now I’ll never get to sleep. I sigh and roll over. Ned the Puppy scratches about in his cage some more.

Sting. Sting. Sting. STING. OUCH! No, seriously? What the hell is going on?? I reach an arm over to my nightstand. Lights on AND…

There are ants. EVERYWHERE. Crawling on my legs. Crawling on my bed. Crawling on the floor. There are at least fifty little red fire ants milling about, doing dastardly deeds and stinging and biting my lower extremities with glee (I can tell.) It’s like something out of a horror movie: I feel them crawl on me; I reach for the lights and BOOM— insect nightmare. I actually screamed. Thank god they only had six legs, and not eight, or (gulp) more.

I spring from the bed and grab some Kleenex and go to work on manually killing the little buggers. Pow, pow, splat. I’m still actually kind of screaming a bit while I do this. And also, I’m in a decent amount of pain now as the formic acid tingles unpleasantly under the epidermis of both legs and feet. The duvet gets a sound beating and gets tossed to the floor. The sheets get swept liberally. I beat at the pillows with my fists. I hit the floor on hands and knees and slap ‘em good. Pow, pow, splat. It’s as if I’ve gone into some sort of insecticidal trance. I’m bound and determined to get every last one of those six-legged stingers. But wait… where did they come from?

It’s at this point that I cast a glance over my left shoulder at the five pound shih-tzu in his cage. Ned, at this point, has his ass butted up against the bars of his cage and is proceeding to furiously dig up his pillow and scratch through the floor of the cage. Oh dear god! For four hours you’ve been sleeping with killer ants! I’m SUCH A BAD MOM!

I fly over to his cage and spring him from his insect-infested prison. I wipe off his little legs and belly and his pouffy tale. I get stung in the process, but this time it doesn’t seem to enrage me so much as feel like punishment for negligent pet ownership. When Ned’s clean I toss him on the bed, which is also clean at this point, and run downstairs to find the Raid. Then, like a good protective mama bear, I spray the shit out of the floor, under the bed, and poor little Neddle’s cage.

It takes me about forty-five minutes to be satisfied that I’ve gotten all of the ants. I wipe up their poison shells and clean up the floor. Ned, lucky exhausted pooch that he is, gets to sleep the rest of the night on the bed with me since he can’t sleep in a cage lined with a thin film of Raid. He wiggles around for the rest of the night, never quite getting to sleep, but I sort of sigh a happy sigh as he nudges his cold nose up against my arm to snuggle. I have saved my puppy from the certain doom of being eaten alive by fire ants. I’m a grown up now.