I don't know where they come from or why they are dead. Every night I wipe our counters and window sill clean, and every morning there they are. A trail of dead ants. If it had only happened once, I would find it rather amusing. Now, it's starting to piss me off.
I know we have plenty of live ants outside. Just lean against one of the posts in the backyard and you have yourself a lovely ant sweater. Stand too long in our driveway, by the huge crack in the cement, and you've got yourself some matching ant socks. I can't stand it, but what makes me happy is that I can kill these ants. I have the control of where and when they die. The ants in my kitchen are already gone. It's like ant heaven or something.
Sometimes, like this morning, I will find one lone ant stumbling among his fallen brethren.
I lean down to his level and beg him to tell me what went down in my kitchen the night before. He won't tell me, just picks up a fallen buddy and carries him about 2 inches before I squish him into oblivion.
Maybe they are southern ants, re-enacting Gettysburg nightly on my kitchen counter. Yes, that must be it. I wonder if I awoke at the right moment, would I could hear their tiny muskets sounding off and their tiny general's yelling for more fire? Then, maybe a moment of silence before their little ant voices rise up chanting about how they come marching one by one? Hurrah, hurrah.