Do ants have saints?

Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick.
10 AM. New guests are arriving tomorrow. Must leave house at 5:30 AM and drive to Rome's Fiumicino Airport to pick them up.
Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick.
Ok. Finish laundry by 11:30 AM. Clean bathrooms. Wash floors. Should take me to 3:30. Still time to zoom down to the Iper department store to get a lighter cover for the bed in the Valley View bedroom. Way too hot for the monster comforter on there now! Then home by 7 or so. Laundry will be dry. Make beds. Put on coffee pot for the morning wake-up. Should be able to be in bed by 9 and get plenty of sleep for the 3 1/2 hour drive through Rome during rush hour. I can do this!
Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick.
3:00 laundry and floors are done. Wait! Gotta stop for groceries, too. Make list. Stop at bank for cash. On the way to Iper by 5. Okay. I can still do this.
Traffic.
Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick.
But, I am still able to get everything I need and return to the house by 8. Take bedspread out of package. Needs ironing. Okay. Shouldn't take to long. Still can be in bed by 9:30. Run to kitchen to get iron.  WHAAAAAT? Ants!! All over the kitchen table! Crawling over the honey jars, in the fruit bowl, down the table legs. Holey moley!!
Luckily, there's ant spray in the cabinet from a few weeks ago when they appeared in the downstairs kitchen. I had blithely thought I'd pick some wildflowers to artfully arrange in a large, old wine jug next to the fireplace. Unfortunately, along with the wild flowers came wild ants. But I sprayed the suckers, got rid of the flowers, and defeated the panthehon of nature. So I thought. I hadn't seen any others for a week, but now they'd returned with a vengence and invaded the kitchen. The kitchen, for crying out loud! How do you welcome people into your house with a tabletop full of ants!
I grab the spray. Remove everything from the tabletop. Throw out all the fruit. Put the honey jars to soak in hot water. And spray the heck out of the table top.
Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick.
While I let the poison work, I run to the sitting room with the iron. The bedspread is huge. Too huge for the ironing board. It has to be ironed in small sections and turned periodically. Very carefully. So as not to wrinkle the already ironed parts. And slowly.
Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick.
OUCH! In order to make as much room as possible for the bedspread, I must relegate the iron to a tiny piece of the ironing board. There is little room to work. I burn my arm. I run to the kitchen to throw cold water on it, even though I know this is not the optimum treatment for a burn.
A pool of dead ants lies at the bottom of one table leg. But others are scurrying up from underneath the table edge. From seemingly out of nowhere. What the heck? I open the silverware drawer. It is full of....ants! They swarm away as soon as light hits them.
I splash water on my arm, take the honey jars out of the hot water, rinse them, drain the water, and empty   the contents of the silverware drawer into a sinkful of more hot, soapy water. The ants are now pouring out of the drawer, down table legs, back onto the tabletop. I rip the drawer from the table. Spray like mad. Run out of spray. Shit! The iron is still on! Dash back to sitting room. Burn is throbbing and starting to blister. Wish I'd bought the aloe plant I was admiring in Bricco! Too bad.
Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick.
After 45 minutes or so, the bedspread is ironed. 9:30. Make the bed. Back to kitchen to wash down table and drawer, dry all silverware, clean off honey jars and wrap in plastic bags, put in 'fridge. Dead ants piling up on table, floor. Sweep them up, unceremoniously dump them in trash can, and clean surfaces.
Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick.
Gah! Must check flight schedule to be sure plane will arrive on time, pull car rental info from files, check purse to be sure passport is there! Fire up laptop on top of table. Stray ants weaving in drunken curves towards me. Whap! Dead ant. Type type type. Whap! Dead ant! Whap! Whap! Whap! Type type type. They keep advancing. I keep slapping them dead with my hands. They are hearty little suckers. My hand begins to sting from the force of killing them. But they keep sending in reinforcements. Ok. This is war! Whap! Type. Whap! Type! With each blow there seem to be less advancing.
Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick.
10:30. I shut down the laptop. Grab espresso pot and fill with water and coffee. Place on stove at the ready. Open cabinet to get sugar bowl. Ants!!!  I am now out of ammunition! And getting very tired. Everything comes out of the cabinet: pasta, flour, cereal, jars of bruschetta and garllic spread, jelly, sugar,  cellophane bags of cantucci. What can be saved is sealed in plastic. What can't is tossed in the trash can.
Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick.
11:30. Can't leave the trash in the can. Pull it out and seal it. Dash to the front door to take it to the dumpster.
Now this is the metaphysical part. The nearest dumpster is just a few steps outside the door of one of three shrines in town. I mean, here is this sacred spot, with a pristine altar cloth, fresh flowers every day, and a lovingly preserved 16th century fresco on the back wall. A revered spot right next to a dumpster. This particular shrine is dedicated to Santa Lucia. As I pass quickly by the open door, light falls on her statue and I can't tell if she's smiling piteously at me or laughing at me. Because as soon as I lift the trash bag to toss it in the dumpster, I notice there is a hole in the bottom. I turn to look behind me and see I have left a trail of coffee grinds, greasy paper towels, cantalope rinds, and moldy bread in my wake. It goes all the way back to the front door. I ditch the trash bag, and make quick eye contact with the saint as I dash back to the house. "Okay, little missy. Can you help with this one? Is there a patron saint of the battle against ants? And are you she?" I follow the trail back to the house, past more saints, the ones that line the stairs up to the Church.  I'm told they are protectors. But whose side are they on? Mine or the ants? It's hard to tell, because as I enter the house, I see that the trail continues through the downstairs kitchen, up the stairs, and into the main kitchen, where there are still....ants!
Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick.
Midnight.
I grab broom, mop, bucket, and bleach. Surely bleach has got to be a little toxic to the critters I am battling. They have no weapons but their numbers and persistence. Surely I can overcome these! Sweep.  Wash. Wipe. Dry. Repeat. On floors. In cabinets. Every single one in the kitchen. In all the drawers. Pull everything out of the fireplace. Clean that, too. By now I'm so tired, my latent Catholicism is taking over and I'm praying to any saint I can think of to rid me of this scourge! But just when I think I have defeated them once and for all, I see another three or seven crawling out from somewhere I haven't cleaned yet. And I wonder...are THEY praying, too? Do ants have saints? Gawdamighty I hope not! I can't imagine a full-blown jihad with insects!
I continue cleaning, bleaching, wiping, wrapping everything in the kitchen in plastic.
Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick.
It is 1:30 AM when I believe I've seen the last of the ants.
I drop into bed, fully clothed, so I can sleep until 5:15.
Mwaaaap. Mwaaaaaap. Mwaaaaaap. Mwaaaaap.
The alarm goes off about three hours after I've finally stopped fretting about ants and have dropped off to sleep. I creep anxiously into the kitchen. No ants at the coffee pot site. No ants on the table. No ants in the silverware drawer. No ants in the cabinets.
But did you know ants are cannibals? At least these are! I see a knot gathered around the body of their fallen comrade, carrying him off. I can't help it. "Dear God, help me!" I say out loud as I stomp on them.
I quickly scoop up the bodies, and throw them out the front door right at the feet of the saints.
"There", I say, "Let it either be a lesson to all the ants' saints, or a sacrificial offering to mine."
Slam.
In the house, I grab car keys, purse, a few untainted cantucci, and head for the autostrada.
I don't know about you, but I'm not quite so religiously inclined as to trust only in saints. At the airport, while waiting to retrieve the new rental car I will share with the guests, I slip away from my them and text my property manager. "HELP! IF U HAVE KEY 2 HSE, PLS CK 4 ANTS B-4 I RETURN. TERRIFIED GUESTS WILL B GREETED BY INSECTS!"
Several minutes later, she texts me back, "HAVE SPRAYED HSE. FEW ANTS. HOPEFULLY WILL BE GONE BY UR RETURN."
During the ride back to the house, I try to make breezy conversation, pointing out the mountain ranges and naming hilltop towns. But inside my head I'm praying. "Please don't let there be ants. Please don't let there be ants. Please don't let there be ants."
We arrive. I park the car. Help them with luggage. Open front door.
Pound pound pound pound. My heart.
We enter the kitchen. One lone ant scurries away across the threshold. I covertly snuff him out. The guests love the kitchen. I exhale. I guess my saints won. My prayers were answered.

                                                                      My Saints