The View From A Farr
We’ve got ants. A whole gang of ‘em. Coming into the kitchen through an ant-sized old-western swinging saloon door, bellying up to the bar and helping themselves to whatever they can find. Bread crumbs. Cat food. They don’t demand a mug of beer or a glass of whiskey. They’re satisfied with a small portion of the day-old pizza I forgot to put in the refrigerator last night. Ants all line...