A couple of days ago, I discovered a trail of black sugar ants in the mudroom. The ants had entered the room from a minuscule crack in the baseboard that had gone unnoticed due to its location behind a filing cabinet. I have no idea how long the ants had been stealthily stealing food from Finnigan's dish, but, it couldn't have been longer than a day or so because I am slightly anal about picking up, and cleaning, the food dishes twice a day and; I'm fairly certain that I would have noticed a horde of insects had they existed in that space, earlier.
As it was, I calmly went about eradicating our tiny visitors with the Dustbuster, tracking their path back to that lone crack, filling said crack with silicone, and, spraying the trail with ant spray. Did I mention that I did all of that, calmly?
Yes. Total lie. In actuality, while I did suck those nasty bastards down with the Dustbuster, flushing them down the toilet for good measure; it was Hugh who had to deal with the silicone and the bug spray as I was busy scrubbing myself raw in the shower in an effort to end the imaginary bugs-crawling-on-my-skin-feeling that I picked up the minute the first ant crawled across my hand as I bent to pick up a food dish.
I'm not quite over it and can now add PTSD caused by Ant Infestation to my list of imaginary psychological ailments.