Ant farms: a great source of entertainment and senseless, chaotic violence
People still ask me about the ant farms, which is sort of amazing, considering they existed for maybe two weeks and have been dormant for almost three years now. But, every Tuesday, the same notification pops up on my Microsoft Outlook — "FEED YOUR ANTS!!" — and I can't bring myself to cancel it.
Originally published Feb. 27, 2010
All I want is for my ants to be happy again. Or a t least for them to stop acting like six-legged sociopaths.
Back in October, inspired by an episode of "Mad Men," I started voicing my desire to receive a large, free-standing ant farm for Christmas. Ideally, I wanted it to be about 5-feet-by 5-feet and form a third cubicle wall.
I didn't get my massive, custom ant farm, but I did get two Uncle Milton Industries ant farms that could be connected via lengths of clear tube. It was the best day ever.
And so the empty farms went up, secured to the cubicle wall with duct tape, to the dismay of my ant-averse cubicle mate. One was dubbed Athens and the other Sparta. All that was missing were my mail-order ants, which were sterile and thus more palatable.
All through the winter, I waited, waited, waited for my two tubes of ants, which the Uncle Milton Industries representative explained would not be sent until the statewide average temperature was above 32 degrees for 10 days in a row. It was torturous and reminded me of being 7 years old, feverishly waiting for something that might or might not arrive. Two to eight weeks is an unfairly large range.
I wondered where my ants were, what they were doing and thinking about. Had they hatched yet? Would they miss their hometown? Newsroom employees regularly stopped by to ask when they were coming, but I had no answers.
And then one beautiful afternoon, they were here. They went in the fridge for the prescribed 15 minutes to settle them down, then, with the help of coworkers, were carefully shaken into their new homes.
For several days, all was well. They were building tunnels and exploring, filling the tubes with sand and enjoying the kitty kibble my coworker had lovingly provided. So fun. So satisfying. I wondered why everyone didn't have ant farms. I loved to watch them, to think they were enjoying their tiny universe atop my cubicle wall. Look at them go!
And then it all went to hell. My ants descended into madness; my peaceful yet bustling ant colonies became a chilling carnival of death.
Specifically, not only are they dying by the flock, but they are dismembering their fellow ants, then triumphantly carrying heads, thoraxes and abdomens around. They also are doing things like entombing the weaker members in the tube, alive, then filling the edges with sand so they can't escape. Ant bodies, broken and crinkly, are piling in corners. Essentially, it is "Saw: Ant Edition."
The ant farms came with a hilarious "Ant Watcher's Manual." Written on the front, bold and clear as dawn: "Caution: Never handle or touch ants directly. They can bite or sting to defend themselves."
Inside are some equally entertaining chapters:
"Ants Love to Eat"; "Don't Bake Your Ants!"; "Ants Are Very Sanitary"; "Ants Are Altruistic," etc.
But you know what's missing? The "Ants Will Bite Each Other Apart And Gross You Out While You Try to Write Weekend Section Briefs" chapter.
In fact, I just paused in writing this to gaze at them. One has climbed to the top of the fake silo (it is, after all, a farm-themed ant farm) carrying a comrade's body. She is hoisting it into the air and waving it around. Why?
It's not like I can just sit them down for a good talking to, and that's always the trouble with pets. They are immensely entertaining and make our lives richer, but it would be a lot easier if pets spoke English.
"Hey! Maybe we could not tinkle in my shoes today, huh?"
"Pooping on the couch? It makes no sense. Knock it off."
Or, in this case, "why would you chew apart Ant No. 27, then carry her head around for hours? It's troubling. I don't want you to do that again, please."
But you can't. They do whatever mysterious things they decide, with motives, ideas and plans completely inaccessible to us. It's kind of fascinating but more than a little frustrating.
So, if anyone has advice for an amateur ant enthusiast trying to reform her colonies of the damned, it'd be helpful.
K. Williams Brown is an arts and entertainment reporter for the Statesman Journal. She thinks ant farms are a good way to teach children about war, death and the capacity for (insect) evil.
All I want is for my ants to be happy again. Or a t least for them to stop acting like six-legged sociopaths.
Back in October, inspired by an episode of "Mad Men," I started voicing my desire to receive a large, free-standing ant farm for Christmas. Ideally, I wanted it to be about 5-feet-by 5-feet and form a third cubicle wall.
I didn't get my massive, custom ant farm, but I did get two Uncle Milton Industries ant farms that could be connected via lengths of clear tube. It was the best day ever.
And so the empty farms went up, secured to the cubicle wall with duct tape, to the dismay of my ant-averse cubicle mate. One was dubbed Athens and the other Sparta. All that was missing were my mail-order ants, which were sterile and thus more palatable.
All through the winter, I waited, waited, waited for my two tubes of ants, which the Uncle Milton Industries representative explained would not be sent until the statewide average temperature was above 32 degrees for 10 days in a row. It was torturous and reminded me of being 7 years old, feverishly waiting for something that might or might not arrive. Two to eight weeks is an unfairly large range.
I wondered where my ants were, what they were doing and thinking about. Had they hatched yet? Would they miss their hometown? Newsroom employees regularly stopped by to ask when they were coming, but I had no answers.
And then one beautiful afternoon, they were here. They went in the fridge for the prescribed 15 minutes to settle them down, then, with the help of coworkers, were carefully shaken into their new homes.
For several days, all was well. They were building tunnels and exploring, filling the tubes with sand and enjoying the kitty kibble my coworker had lovingly provided. So fun. So satisfying. I wondered why everyone didn't have ant farms. I loved to watch them, to think they were enjoying their tiny universe atop my cubicle wall. Look at them go!
And then it all went to hell. My ants descended into madness; my peaceful yet bustling ant colonies became a chilling carnival of death.
Specifically, not only are they dying by the flock, but they are dismembering their fellow ants, then triumphantly carrying heads, thoraxes and abdomens around. They also are doing things like entombing the weaker members in the tube, alive, then filling the edges with sand so they can't escape. Ant bodies, broken and crinkly, are piling in corners. Essentially, it is "Saw: Ant Edition."
The ant farms came with a hilarious "Ant Watcher's Manual." Written on the front, bold and clear as dawn: "Caution: Never handle or touch ants directly. They can bite or sting to defend themselves."
Inside are some equally entertaining chapters:
"Ants Love to Eat"; "Don't Bake Your Ants!"; "Ants Are Very Sanitary"; "Ants Are Altruistic," etc.
But you know what's missing? The "Ants Will Bite Each Other Apart And Gross You Out While You Try to Write Weekend Section Briefs" chapter.
In fact, I just paused in writing this to gaze at them. One has climbed to the top of the fake silo (it is, after all, a farm-themed ant farm) carrying a comrade's body. She is hoisting it into the air and waving it around. Why?
It's not like I can just sit them down for a good talking to, and that's always the trouble with pets. They are immensely entertaining and make our lives richer, but it would be a lot easier if pets spoke English.
"Hey! Maybe we could not tinkle in my shoes today, huh?"
"Pooping on the couch? It makes no sense. Knock it off."
Or, in this case, "why would you chew apart Ant No. 27, then carry her head around for hours? It's troubling. I don't want you to do that again, please."
But you can't. They do whatever mysterious things they decide, with motives, ideas and plans completely inaccessible to us. It's kind of fascinating but more than a little frustrating.
So, if anyone has advice for an amateur ant enthusiast trying to reform her colonies of the damned, it'd be helpful.
K. Williams Brown is an arts and entertainment reporter for the Statesman Journal. She thinks ant farms are a good way to teach children about war, death and the capacity for (insect) evil.