The inevitability of this post was set in motion the moment the ants arrived in their tube, ready to get busy and start farming.
They've actually been pretty lethargic ever since they realized that their frenetic digging and tunneling ended them up in the same blue gel, a few inches away. Since then, they've hung out down in the clubhouse, apparently on strike. If we open the lid and blow softly on them, they get stirred up and run around for awhile before the futility hits them again and they go sulk.
Things being how they are in a (almost) ten-year-old's room, it was surprising it took this long for a flying stuffed animal to knock the farm off the bedside table and upside down on the floor, with a crack in one corner and the lid knocked sideways. Screams of panic brought me tearing into the room, where instinct caught hold and I started stomping on escaping ants. (I justified it to Henry by saying it was illegal to let them loose in the wild and we'd start an epidemic.)
We probably ended up with 8-10 casualties, a paper towel stuffed into the hole and the ants taking attendance and reconstructing their gel towers. Henry doesn't want them in his room anymore, and I have to say I spent the next half hour brushing imaginary ants off my arms and legs.
Everyone's a little shook up from the event, and I'm counting on a knock on my bedroom door at 2 in the morning due to nightmares about ants swarming over the bed.
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