Now I know why they call them fire ants

Because they hurt like hell, that’s why. We’ve just spent a kingly sum on fixing up the “estate.” Let’s just say, we spent enough to keep a small third world economy afloat for a bit. So, as you might imagine, when the landscaper encouraged us to give extra water to the newly planted trees, shrubs, and flowers, we were more than willing. And, mind you, this does not come naturally to us. Our idea of gardening is watching someone else do it. There is no Plan B. The trouble with gardening in the semi-tropics, as you have here, is that you have the constant company of scorching heat and humidity that can peel any man-made substance off any surface exposed to the atmosphere. Plus, there are the bugs. For example, the mosquitoes here are required to have drivers’ licenses. The palmetto bugs are so large they can be drafted to pull small carts, if you have that need. No one warned me about the fire ants though.

So there I was trying to be manly about ignoring the pothole sized mosquito bites I was actively collecting on my shins and back when I could not help but notice that my feet were on fire even though I couldn’t see the flames. I looked down to see a populous nation of black ants literally covering my feet. If it was human flesh they sought, they had hit the mother lode. The yelp I emitted got Mojo’s attention, although only for a moment as he turned over on the driveway to continue his mid-day snooze. I did what any fire department would do -- I hosed down my feet, but the burning would now have to run its course.

I mentioned this experience to the guys who were finishing up with the landscaping and their eyes and mine simultaneously gazed down at their feet: combat boots that would make Attila the Hun proud. Impenetrable.

I’m off to the shoe store.