Rocket vs. the Fire Ants

Rocket was “helping” me take the garbage bins to the curb when he met the fire ants.

A neighbor had leaned down to pet him and he dropped on the grass so she could skip right to rubbing his belly.   It’s a shiny coat of short brown hair, and if you’re lucky he stays still enough so you don’t end up rubbing his privates by accident.

The word “Grass” is probably not a good description of our lawn. Because it’s not the kind of turf any old dog would want to roll around in; but rather a complex collection of weeds and woody stems that are best described by looking on the Ortho weed killer label under “super-resistant species that cannot be killed by the contents of this bottle.”

This new fauna is evidently the evil offspring of the lush St. Augustine sod our landscapers planted in the 18 square feet of the parkway for $900.   About three months ago.

And rather than the bright green-yellow colors you’d expect after expensive fertilizers and illegal daily watering, this is a patchy and poorly-hued scrap of yard that resembles a sandlot.  You’d almost expect to see a cracked and uprooted Chicago sidewalk somewhere nearby.

So, belly rubbing completed (and he bravely resisted the urge to bite her) we had a pleasant, rambling conversation about mailboxes and the weather in Pennsylvania.   My wife appeared to see what had become of us.   As she joined the conversation, I noticed that Rocket was lying in the midst of small grayish mounds of dirt covered with tiny red ants.

Fire-ants.

The fire ant is well-known as one of Florida’s nastiest if not smallest creatures.  Its bite is only slightly less painful than a bee sting, and it burns and itches and lingers for days.  They don’t just “get on you” where you step, they jump by the dozens onto your shoes and pants and keep stinging until you brush them off like someone has lit your clothes with a bic lighter.

They are the jellyfish of the hillbilly lawn.   And Rocket was swimming in a sea of them.

“Umm,” I said to Julie.   She was engrossed in conversation, but I continued on anyway.   “I think Rocket is on top of some fire ants.”   I pulled him up in a panic by his collar and brushed him off.

Well, he didn't seem to act like he had just been stung by 50 bees...  “Hmm, maybe not,” I offered, seeing him unaffected.   Julie was ignoring me.

I rubbed his head, my spirits lifting.   “You know, those don’t even look like fire ants,” I reassured myself, using my best biologist inflection.  Confident there was no harm done, I forgot the whole incident.

Until today, when I asked Julie how things went at Rocket’s first veterinary appointment.  “He was pretty nervous there, but the vet said he was sweet.   Everything looked fine except he had all these bites on his side.   We didn't know what that was from but it looked pretty bad.”

Wow, I don't know either.   But maybe she shouldn’t have let him roll around in our high-priced sandlot.