an ant's perspective

A reader from San Miguel de Allende asked me about my fascination with animals earlier in the week. It is a passion she does not share.

I do not know the answer. According to my mother, I have always been fascinated with things that move. At four or five, I would check out any book from the Powers library (with Mom's help) that dealt with animals. Snakes topped the list.

It is an interesting question, though. Why does the mere appearance of a spider cause great fear in some people, but pure fascination in others?

I know the Darwinian explanation. Long ago, the fear of anything that had the potential of harm was locked into our DNA. But that does not explain why the fear factor is not part of everyone's psyches.

Maybe the Great Evolutionist withheld that particular survival technique from some of us. After all, someone has to bring the furled magazine to the errant spider, cobra, or tiger that weasels its  way into our bit of civilization.

Take this morning as an example. I was eating my breakfast on the long table in the center of my patio. A large umbrella makes it the perfect spot to enjoy our sunny days in the cocoon of its shade.

Umbrellas do not last long here. If the sun does not destroy the covering, dry rot will erode the wooden pole that holds everything upright. My current umbrella suffers from both maladies -- partially shredded in a tropical storm and atilt from a corrupted pole.

Whenever the dry rot sets in, ant colonies set up shop in the base of the umbrella. On a regular day, scouting parties of ants -- maybe five or so -- will scour the top of the table as if it were the Serengeti. Now and then, they will score a kill with a bit of food that has fallen from my plate. Otherwise, they service their colony with the various insect corpses that litter the patio.

But, some days, I like playing the role of a formicine god by providing manna from heaven. In truth, today's ant treat was nothing more than a few crumbs of Danish butter cookies.

A couple of scouts were near the hole where the umbrella passes through the table. Within seconds of sprinkling the crumbs near them, the scouts smelled the cookies and the frenzy was on. Having been alerted by the scouts, a wave of colleagues emerged from their trenches, first hauling off the small crumbs, then working as a group to move or divvy up the larger pieces.

While the main harvesting was under way, other scouts branched out searching for the possibility of additional largess. And they found it.

Even though I could not see any crumbs, the ants congregated at where I had placed my cookies on the table and where my crumb-encrusted palm had rested on the table.

I watched this little diorama of life for about a half hour when the reader's question intruded on my thoughts. Why do I find these creatures so fascinating when some people's first reaction would be to reach for a can of Raid. After all, this is where I eat some of my meals.

Maybe it is as simple as Solomon tells us in Proverbs. There is a lesson for us in the ant ballet.

Go to the ant, you lazybones!

Consider its ways, and be wise.

It has no chief, overseer or ruler;

yet it provides its food in summer

and gathers its supplies at harvest-time.

I know that is one reason that ants attract me. Not only are they built efficiently to gather food, but their somewhat-unorganized methods of bringing home the bacon are concurrently amusing and awe-inspiring.

The answer is rather lame, but I guess the reason we like most things in life often eludes a rational description. Why do I like green, but not orange? Why do I like sour cream but not cream cheese? And why do I like things that crawl in the night?

Some things in life do not come with pat answers. We just enjoy them because they are there.

Ants and all.