I've just slaughtered an entire colony of teeny-tiny ants -- not the big, ugly, full-of-green-guts carpenter ants, but the miniscule little baby-looking ones -- with just a couple sprays of this organic pest control solution I found under the sink.
It was pretty heartless. Sort of like the equivalent of dropping the H-bomb on an entire population. I mean, these things were stopped instantaneously in their tracks. One minute they're marching around my sink all happy-go-lucky, munching away at whatever grain of sugar they might find along the way, and the next -- BAM -- they're dead. Life: gone.
I felt a little bad. It's one thing to wash the little buggers down the drain... but an entirely other thing to inflict instantaneous death and destruction on their teeny-tiny lives. I think.
Why am I feeling bad about killing ants?? There will always be more. The little hamlet of a town I live in is famous for its ants, apparently. In fact, I bet if I go take a look right now, I'll find some more. And I'm going to have to kill them, too.
So why does it bother me?
Thanks,
Kate
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