A large group of ants team up together to lift a dead beetle and take it back to their hole, euphoric at having discovered a feast, but one to be also saved for the winter, the resourceful little creatures they are.
Genius and clever too, as you watch them co-ordinate beautifully and carry the beetle – which must be fifty times their weight – across the tiles by holding it in place with their pincers, maneuvering and shifting angles. One wrong foot and everyone will tumble right over, but these ants are nothing like us. They are focused. They know what they are doing.
And have alarming peripheral vision as well as strength, as you stare at them climbing over a scrunched piece of paper that’s in their way.
The entrance to their hole is five feet away and you come on all fours on the floor, observing them with great interest and awe, shifting other barriers out of their way as they scuttle across, not a drop of sweat breaking out from their agile little bodies. They look like they can carry that kind of weight all around the apartment and flash imperious smirks.
But then you’re called to throw the dirty laundry in the washing machine and whispering good luck to those warriors and praying that they get the beetle inside that hole soon, you get back to your feet and head to the laundry.
When you come back, your eyes gleam with pride, seeing the ants have reached their hole.
But you go still as you realise they have no beetle with them.
It’s actually lying abandoned far off, swept away by the maid.
And that’s how life cackles in your face.