The Ethics of Squashing an Ant (even if he really deserves it)

(ant)

The heat of summer yanks me across choice after choice, searing me wherever I make the mistake of stopping to weigh my options. Naive as I am, I willingly walk into the dense July air, listening to how my shoes scrape over the grit of concrete, so as to take my mind off the sweat invading my socks and the sunlight slipping through the gaps in my sunglasses. When I grow bored of the scraping, I turn to inspecting the tree bark, which I assure you is a dangerous activity. The web-like grooves, built up flake by flake, present infinite detail, and no matter which resolution one considers the bark at, the opportunities with which to admire it prove ceaseless. Should you (and by you I mean me) attempt to understand the tree and to what end it barks, you will be forced to accept that there are modes of pathfinding that only the tree knows.

In an effort to avoid such self-indulgent tree-peeping, I limit myself to only which details I may glean as I walk past, (and I walk fast, because it's important for my ego, which is, in turn, important, because I'm better than you at walking, and you must know it firsthand should we ever cross paths). Thus, in the shade of the tree I turn my gaze ahead, typically to the next tree. But what, you may wonder (and by you I mean me) happens if the next tree waits a whole fathomslength ahead, and—hold on let me Google something… so suppose the next tree waits a whole six fathoms ahead, and you must suffer an unshaded stretch of baking concrete? That, my scrumptious reader, is when the ethical catastrophe gets you.

In the full brunt of the sun, there is nothing to trick your eyes when you happen upon him: (pretend for a moment that it's a him, I'm aware this is not how ants work), an ant, which you knew already because I just spoiled it in the parenthetical. This, however, is the worst kind of ant; he walks by his lonesome, crossing the barren concrete so that he may bridge his way from dirt to dirt. It is here that you (and by you I mean me) must make a choice: to squash or not to squash? (Which, I’m told on good authority, is a Shakespeare reference.)

At first glance, the dilemma appears mundane. It is but an ant; any feelings it may have are trivial compared to the inner workings of a human being. Then it hits you (and by you I mean—well you get the idea, and I'm sure this has already been dreadful enough to read, but, just in case you forgot, by you I mean me, but I'm going to keep doing this to prove that I am truly torn between good and evil and not just the precious angel you presumed me to be, and by you I mean you this time, my scrumptious reader). Anyway, and then it hits you: the ant may not possess a humanesque mental tapestry, but there's also no reason to make such deliberate use of your disgusting, worn-out sneakers to create an arranged yet intimate union of the ant's innards and the uneven concrete.

For what do you stand to gain by such barbarism? A fleeting amusement? Are you simply testing the moral boundaries of all creation? We, in The West™, at least, place no badge of moral folly on the destruction of ants. Indeed, ants are oft perceived as a most cunning pest, making mansions of our crossbeams and feasts of our precious crumb collections. But, not this ant. You know nothing of this ant's crimes, nor of his potential complicity in the crimes of his colony, if there even are any. And, most importantly, now that you take a closer look at him, he's kind of cute.

This is where the childish moral dilemmas end, and the true ontological inquiries begin. Can an ant be cute? This one certainly has that vibe. Cute in what way, though? Cuteness may lay claim to many levels of a creature's being (as I'm sure you're dutifully aware, my scrumptious reader). Is the ant, marching along, heaving its way up the sidewalk's stony imperfections as if they were bargain-bin mountains; is such a creature cute in the way a puppy is? Your gut quickly slits the throat of such a notion, taking extra care to not spill any blood on the fancy new rug you got from the rug factory in Afghanistan or whatever. No, that is entirely the wrong flavor of cuteness.

Is it cute in the way a potential lover may be—presenting just the right balance of beauty and quirk that makes one consider throwing themselves into gorgeous life-long commitments? It is best not to ponder this one, for risk of finding yourself at the doorstep of some rather anthropologically intriguing subreddits, (which may or may not contain nightmares both anthropological and anthropomorphized in nature).

Then we must move onto a third cuteness, one regarded as far sinister than the first two (if you're insufferable). That is the cuteness that emanates from one's own young child, preferably as they fumble through their first steps, and you realize in the back of your mind that it will probably be only a few short days before you may finally teach the sprat to daytrade. This comparison may appear ridiculous, but, in a way, the ant has become your responsibility. In the few short moments you've known him, you've taken it upon yourself (and by yourself I mean myself) to govern the fate of the poor creature (and we all know we can't leave fate up to fate).

Now, ignore for a moment that I've used a phrase as distasteful as "we" in the previous psychotic parenthesized package (quadruple alliteration!) and keep in mind I only did it to save you, my scrumptious reader, from enduring nests upon nests of parentheses (which (I might add) proves I'm taking this moral journey quite seriously).

So, where in the hierarchy of cosmic responsibility may you inject yourself? Do you even have a right to consider the rippling effects of your actions? You could let the ant go, but you must be ready to look the other way and perhaps not blush too hard when hour after hour of cable news dedicates itself to document a well-oiled ant genocide and its charismatic ant leader who in no way looks familiar to you.

Then, say, perchance, you opt to squash the fruit of your adoptive loins and excise the insect's soul from any hope at making it home in time for existence itself. Is this not playing into the ant's desires? The ant operates on an utterly inhuman rationale, written in the language of eusociality. You may think of the ant as your child, but you struggle to see things from the ant's point of view. In what way do you reason with a creature that may kill itself to pass on seventy-five percent of its genetic information, when you can barely squeak out fifty by staying alive?

Can the inner workings of a single ant even be understood without the context of the whole? Is it as hopeless as peering into a single transistor in a computer's CPU, and thinking the single one or zero can give any hint to the questionable George Washington fanart it's trudging to represent? And before you go judging at such an analogy, keep in mind that patriotism used to mean something in this country.

And if ants were to operate in similar fashion to a computer, would it not be a far more flexible design than the rigid, overheating, silicon monstrosities our more nerdy brethren construct? Can a colony of ants run Crisis? (Only gamers get that joke, an aside I'm only including because it's been proven to give one's company a trillion dollar valuation). But then, to save yourself from thinking through a method in which ants may convert the waggling of their little legs into the kind of serial connection needed to push hundreds of frames per second, you wonder if the ants working in unison might be far closer to the neurons in your brain? 

Then, of course, the enigma would make far more sense. The inputs would be so far removed from the outputs that the concept of a soul would feel undeniable, (a concept that only truly cements itself when you meet someone who doesn't have one). How does the colony think? Is it aware of itself? Does it even notice when a swath of its members vanish, or is it more akin to the headache I experience when I'm in the throes of an arson attack on the glue factory? And if the health of the colony persists, would a single squashed ant not simply be replaced by a younger, cuter, smarter, less-squashable ant? Are you not doing the colony a favor by taking out a link so weak it would cross the sidewalk unaccompanied?

But then you might gasp as you realize that perhaps it's exactly those kinds of brazen pioneers that the colony relies upon. Just as humanity stands on the shoulders of giants, perhaps the ants stand on the thoraxes of their squashed ancestors, the flattened billions of them piled so high that they may look the humans in the eye. But this raises a far more desperate question: if ants can reach such heights, are they not the biggest threat to human hegemony?

Then, it would be imperative to squash every ant one comes across. Every squashed bug is a boon for human endeavors, such as making even sturdier boots with which to squash ants even more violently. Such violence might even be reveled in, so long as its tasteful and doesn't take up too much of the average YouTube vlog. But would war on ants be enough to quench the most bloodthirsty of humans? Would the occasional dumping of molten mac and cheese sauce into an unsuspecting anthill be enough to make the elites grow bored of drone striking weddings? (The ones next to the rug factory I was talking about.)

This is when the summer heat throws your mind into a frenzy. What if such violent relishes only encouraged the warmongers? World War Redux Revival could be only a few livestreamed Ant Kristallnachts away, and it'd all be your fault. But perhaps the new world order to arise from such a war would put the current geopolitical catastrophes to shame. Maybe you'd get your shot at living out your erratic freedom fighter fantasies, where you murder the tyrants and then start a new tyranny the moment the flourishing gets to be a bit much for you. 

Perhaps you'd have the populace worship you in the way you've always so desired—which begs the question: do ant colonies have religions? Perhaps they view us as their gods. From their point of view, we are all-powerful, squishing them without suffering so much as a pebble in the shoe. But then, if we are the gods of ants, how do they seek to worship us?

By stealing everything we create, the vermin.

We let them live their simple little lives, and they repay us by raiding our pantries and gutting our buildings. The brazen, self-important disrespect cannot be tolerated. What good is a god or goddess who does not stick to his or her principles? If an ant should cross his master, then perhaps the entire colony should face destruction. And this brings us to the most fundamental question of the entire exercise: where does an ant get off thinking he can cross the sidewalk so carelessly? It is a human creation, never intended for the use of ants. The beasts must learn their place, or suffer the consequences!

But wait, have we humans not built our civilization on the concept of a merciful God? And not just any God, mind you, one who would willingly throw himself unto suffering. Who are we to so harshly judge the ants? We gave them no chances, we made no effort to understand them. When it really comes down to it, we are not gods at all, not in the slightest. Sure we may possess the destructive power of one, but we haven't the wisdom nor the charm, and we'd likely do best to refrain from playing the stupid games found in pretending otherwise.

I realize I've once again made the regrettable mistake of referencing a supposed "we" and I would like to ask for a pass from you, my scrumptious reader. I was ranting, and you know how I get when I'm ranting. I do think the matter has been settled, though. It is only through hubris that one would so shamelessly destroy an ant, and that is why I've already squashed a dozen of the rascals while you were reading this.

Sam Svienty - 2024

(This piece is a work of fiction and not reflective of my actual personality and beliefs)