This time it's ants and dogs... well, one dog

Last night after blogging, I enjoyed an evening of network TV and congratulated myself that I'd won the ant war that has left the Love Shack in a dusty shambles. After some desultory surfing between Letterman, Fallon, and Kimmel, I turned off the TV and converter box and went into my bathroom to take a bath. When I turned on the light, I discovered to my horror another trail of ants, this time leading to the medicine cabinet (which is nowhere near the cabinet that held the half-empty bottle of mouthwash that was the center of the previous ant battle).

I howled. My cat came running. “I can't believe it!” I cried in anguish and ran for the bucket of diatomaceous earth powder. My cat watched as I daubed the loaded paintbrush into the crack that seemed to be spewing little ant soldiers. Then I gingerly opened the medicine cabinet door.

I don't store all that much in this shallow cabinet, probably because it isn't over the sink, like most medicine cabinets, but opposite the sink. I peer into the mirror occasionally when I'm trying to extract a recalcitrant whisker, but I don't really open the cabinet door that often. I yanked open the door to let in the light. The ants continued their industry. I leaned in to see the damage.

The jittery trail led up the side of the cabinet to one of the top shelves, where there was an opened package of cough drops, the menthol eucalyptus kind. (Hey, weren't those the same ingredients in the mouthwash?) I watched for a moment, paintbrush poised. The ants were marching in an out of the package in smart regimental style. Ho Weeee oh, yooooo-oh. You gotta admire the little f--kers, they really know how to get sh-t done.

I eighty-sixed the cough drops that were attracting the crowd, plus two other bags of herbal cough drops that were getting no attention at all. You can't be too careful. These cough drops have been stored in that cabinet for at least five years. If it took them that long to find the menthol eucalyptus goods, then it could be a while before they find the herbal stash. I'd rather jettison all attractive nuisances. I figure safe, not sorry.

So, maybe now I can do a tentative victory dance in the bathroom. I'll let you know.

I tell you, I need something to be glad about. Today I witnessed a sad event: the passing of the neighbors' dog, Mojo.

Mojo was a medium-sized skinny white dog with a big smile. He was shaky and mostly deaf, but always had a tail wag and a welcoming grin for me when I'd get out of my car. Old age came on him fast. Today I looked out my kitchen window and saw a small crowd crouched around something white lying on the grass in the neighbors' front yard. From the looks on all the faces, I could guess what was happening. I could just make out white fur between the rhodies that divide our two yards. People took turns patting the dog's side and fondling his ears. They were saying good-bye.

An hour or so later, I looked out my window again. Mojo, unmoving, was being attended by two people in scrubs. The vet, a hefty woman, sat awkwardly on the ground, efficiently assisted by a young bearded technician. They worked together to shave the dog's leg and insert a needle attached to a plastic tube. In a few minutes, some white stuff flowed through the tube. My window was closed: I couldn't hear any sobs but my own, but I could see that the women were weeping. The men did their best to look sad but stoic (although I noticed one guy couldn't watch while the needle went in.) Only Mojo's dad was unashamedly crying.

It was over in a few minutes. The doctor checked for a heartbeat. The bereft parents bestowed their final kisses. The tech wrapped the body in a blanket and put it in the back of their Mini. That was the end of the brave and kind dog named Mojo. I presume he will be brought back in a small cardboard box, or maybe an urn, and placed on the mantel to preside over the fireplace he used to doze in front of.

I've had allergies all day. I'm surrounded by piles of soggy white tissues. What's a few more tears?