I was out having a "picnic" with the LGBB today, a thing of daily ritual now as her grizzling periods have escalated to incorporate much of the daylight hours.
I did as I normally do: spread out the plastic dropsheet, layered the next plush blankie layer, topped that with a colourful baby quilt, followed by a permanently borrowed kylie from the sleep school I went to last year (shhhh they're bloody handy for nappy-free time, 'kay?). Propped it on all sides with pillows in case Melady did her typical flamboyant "I shan't be sitting any longer, m'mah, I am swooning with the exhaustion of it all" and flailed backwards onto the waiting concrete.
Then I sat her down and proceeded to shoo away all the pests. Namely, Jazz, various late-season bugs. And ants. Scads of ants. Scurrying for cover from the pending rain, no doubt. I swatted, I scraped, I batted. And not just the dog. In the midst of my windmill arms (it sounds like we have an insect plague, the way I'm describing it, but really it was just a steady stream of militant ants), I happened to glance down and notice just as I flicked, a double ant.
A double ant?
Rather, two ants on top of each other. I thought, in that millisecond before my unmanicured nail* flicked it off the drop sheet, "What the hell kind of hump-backed ant is that?" And then my finger had projectile flung the offending ant, who was headed straight for Lolly, I saw him rooly trooly, clean off the rug and into .... somewhere over there.
When I looked down, I was truly humbled. There, lifeless on the clean white blanket, was the body of the fallen ant that the Catapulted One had been carrying home. For an honorary burial, I imagined, replete with National Ant Flag and weeping widow and President. Ooops. A big, Bill Murray a.k.a. Carl from Caddyshack creeping away after the gopher hole sprinkler system incident oops.
Seriously though, I felt so bad! Me, a big scary oaf like a Gorg from Fraggle Rock, swatting away a tinsy little ant. And now their Homecoming was marred all because of me.
I did console myself with the conclusion that that ant was actually carrying back a body that it was going to feast on. Not a mate it was going to bury respectfully.
*ever notice how in novels, it's always a manicured nail? Do writers use this description to imply the woman is kept? A floosy? Flamboyant? Well.... seeing as I'm none of these *unladylike sniff* I felt the need to clarify. Most definitely. Not. Manicured nail.
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