My garden, a lovely house-front apron of flowering plants, shrubs and fruit trees, has been under siege by cutter ants, with no hope of a diplomatic settlement.
They’ve been turning new and old-growth vegetation into confetti for weeks and carrying it through endless parades over my garden day and night. What’s worse, they couldn’t have been more conspicuous and brazen about it if they were wearing plumed medieval helmets.
And for some reason unbeknown to God or man, they will not touch my weeds. I think I yelled out one evening, “I hear the queen loves a good weed snack on occasion.”
Someone once told me their trail of troops can extend miles. I did some extrapolating and discovered that creatures the size of splinters organizing a parade one-mile long is the equivalent of humans marching around the circumference of the earth carrying some ridiculous amount of trail mix over their heads — without ever stopping to eat it. It was the last straw as I watched the dauntless troopers carry portions of my mango tree over my shoetips whistling, “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary!”
Bring in the gardener. He just shrugged and drizzled a few ounces of gasoline into the entrances to their nests and went home.