The summer is still in full vigor in southern California--temperatures in the nineties and not a hint of rain. Keeping the ants out of my house is always most difficult at this time of year. Yesterday I was reading in my favorite chair when I felt one crawling up my leg, and later another, and another. I aimed my reading light at my feet and saw they were swarming frantically in two whorls on the floor. The speed of their movement evinced frustration, as though their communication was amiss and some promised morsels couldn't be found. This morning, I fought a battle with them in the kitchen, and once again, there was no nexus for their raid; they were scouting desperately and in great numbers.
I don't spray poison. I have a dog and I won't take a chance of hurting her. However, the garden stakes keep the insecticide encased in metal. The ants swarm it, carry the contents back to their nest, and there they die, along with their queen. Somehow this is a nobler end for them than the ignominy of dying beneath my broom.
Rain is predicted for tomorrow, and if it comes, the ants will go away. Today I must prepare for the rain by sweeping the valleys on my rooftop. Rain is my best defense against the ants; once it comes, they won't invade the house again this season. However, if I fall off the roof while sweeping it, I suppose I'll have to concede some victory to the ants.