by Mark Kovac,
Capital Bureau Chief
Once upon a time, there lived a bunch of ants.
Not the industrious types that labor all day, digging deep holes and gathering gargantuan bits of food from sidewalks and kitchen cupboards and storing them up to keep themselves and their ant-lings fed.
No, these were good-hearted but flawed ants, wanting to have their cake and eat it, too.
Their parents had nice holes and full abdomens. There were plenty of crumbs to be had and plenty of time to gather them. Why, they would ask themselves, should we slave away digging our own holes?
In time, they began seeking out wealthier ants -- a sub-prime species that had lots of extra dough (cookie, mainly) -- and asked to borrow a few legs-full to pay some more labor-oriented worker ants to dig holes for them.
Certainly, the wealthy ants said, provided they were repaid in full, plus plenty of extra crumbs of bread or cheese to make it worth their while.
They agreed and, in short order, there were new ant holes all over the countryside, with one bigger than the next. Two- and three- and four-bedroom ant holes with three-car garages and flat-screen televisions.
Then came winter. Crumbs were more scarce. Some ants couldn't gather enough to feed themselves, let alone pay back their supposed benefactors.
So they asked the wealthy ants for time to get back on track. Perhaps, they thought, spring would bring new picnics and prime pickings.
But the wealthy ants weren't open to this course of action. In fact, they kicked the have-nots out on their metathoraxes and took possession of the nearly new abodes and their contents. Before long, there were many ants huddled in the snow, knocking on their parents' ant-hole doors seeking shelter.
The queen ant was none to happy about this. So one day, she called everyone together for an announcement.
"This has to stop," she said sternly. "I order all you wealthy ants to sign an oath that you will stop taking these holes away from your fellow country-ants, and you will work out some agreements so they can keep their homes and feed their families."
The only problem was none of the wealthy ants attended. They were too busy gorging themselves on a newly found stash of stale sugar cookies. When word arrived of the queen ant's command, they laughed and raised glasses to her health.
The queen ant waited about a month, then tried again. "I mean it this time," she said. "You guys better sign this or else."
And, again, the wealthy ants were nowhere to be found. Months passed. More ants were kicked to the hill-curb. So many, in fact, that the wealthy ants couldn't keep pace. The now-vacant holes were being taken over by termites and unwanted arachnids, drawing the ire of their respectable ant neighbors. The supply of easy pickings was drying up. If things didn't turn around quickly, the wealthy ants might have to (gasp!) start gathering their own food.
So they tried to work things out. They offered new terms. They agreed to take less if the debtor ants would remain on the properties, take care of them and pay what they could, when they could.
And then, and only then, did they visit the queen ant and offer to sign her oath in a public, symbolic but ultimately mandible-less gesture.
The queen was pleased.
"This is a great day for all ants," she said.
Somewhat skeptical of the display, the lowly press-ants attempted to question the wealthy ants about their change in attitude on the oath issue. But only one offered any explanation, and that was a heart-felt "No comment."
Then the wealthy ants went back to their ant holes, flush with the fruits of debtor ants' work, and lived happily ever after.
There's a moral in there somewhere.
Marc Kovac is the Dix Newspapers Capital Bureau chief. E-mail him at mkovac@dixcom.com.