Ants in my pants

My house recently was invaded by these annoying little black ants. Under the baseboard they came. Up the side of the kitchen cabinet. All over the granite countertop, dining room table, cat food, etc. My equally black cat was especially annoyed. He'd find a squadron of them marching along my wood floor and swat away.

My wife doesn't like to kill anything. It upsets her to pull a carrot from the ground. She'll catch wasps, roaches and anything else that has found its way into our house in cups and cans and release them outside. Problem is, you can't do that with an army of tiny black ants, each about a fifth the size of a grain of rice.

Enter, me. Husband. A k a Ant Killer!

Okay, so she made me use an organic ant spray, which I squirted along the baseboard. Problem solved.

Nope.

A few feet down the baseboard, here they came again. Sprayed there. Half a day of relief. More ants. Sprayed again. Again. Again. Finally sprayed all along the outside of the house. Finally, no more ants.

How many did I kill/murder/slaughter? How many did I send to a writhing, hideous death? Many hundreds, at least. I am the Ant Killer!

Tonight, I was sitting out on my back deck. And what did I see? Little black ants crawling on the wooden planks. My right index finger -- the spray finger -- began to twitch. But I held off. For now.

Instead, I sat and watched the hummingbirds feed. Luxuriated in the warm breeze on my face. Drank a cold Corona with a lime. Admired my black cat as he bathed himself.

But the ants ... I watched them too. I see them. Do you?

My finger twitches even now.