I don’t get along with carpenter ants, and somehow they know it.

At this time of year, they seem to emerge from nowhere. Thankfully, there aren’t armies of them. But one or two is enough to make one wonder if there are thousands more, out of sight, chewing away at some important beam that looks perfectly secure and yet will suddenly disintegrate into dust.

That hasn’t happened, but the very thought is enough to crush those ants that dare explore the back deck. Step on them.

That’s not as easy as it sounds.

I met my match Sunday.

This pesky critter had the audacity to emerge from the crack between the floorboards as I ran the belt sander across the flaking paint on the back porch. The porch is fully exposed to the elements, and after two seasons of snow, baking summer sun and a daily stream of foot traffic – including Ollie and his raccoon and skunk friends – the paint is pretty much worn off and what’s left is cracking.

I used a scraper for the first line of attack and then the sander. The final step was a hooked putty knife to chisel out the grit between the boards and the shop vac to clean it all up.

Sunday’s weather offered the perfect opportunity to take on the project. Rain wasn’t forecast until late afternoon, so there would be plenty of time to do all the time consuming pre-work and get down a coat of fresh paint.

I was on my knees scrapping when the ant appeared, inquisitively criss-crossing the length of the board just beyond my reach. It stopped. It was no bigger than a sunflower seed but I could clearly see its antenna waving. I inched forward so I’d be able to deal a blow with the putty knife. But before I could get in range, it zigzagged father away.

Lucky bugger, I thought, and then chuckled at the pun.

I went back to work. It wasn’t a minute before I spotted another ant, or was it the same one?

I figured this time, I’d be less obvious. I’d wait for the ant to come to me and strike quickly.

I went on scraping, the tiny chips of gray paint piling up at the end of each run.

My unsuspecting prey, or so I thought, went about exploring the exposed wood. Was it really a carpenter ant? Would it start nibbling at the deck? At just the point it was inches from being in reach, it stopped as if it had encountered a glass wall.

How had it decoded my scheme? Was it telepathic?

Had I been in the painting phase, I could have taken my wet brush and splattered it with paint entombing it in enamel until the next round of painting. It would have served as a grim warning to all its buddies not to mess with the porch.

Of course, I was still doing the pre-work so there was no chance of my sticky trap.

There were two more ant encounters before I deemed the deck ready for paint. They taunted me, popping up between the boards before I could swat them with an open hand or stand and deliver a lethal blow between heel and toe.

When I got out the paint, there was no sign of the ants, although a couple of small black spiders made the mistake of exploring their new environs before it dried.

By evening, the deck looked dry. I felt it first and then walked its length. The finished job was better than I hoped for. We’d be good for another two seasons.

As I turned to open the back door, a carpenter ant boldly crossed my path. It was an easy target. One step and I’d have it. But it would have scarred such perfection. I watched as it weaved across the porch.

How did it know it was perfectly safe?