I thought, "The ant can't."

Today, as I awaited the arrival of my caffè macchiato while sitting outside in the warm sunshine and the breezy breeze, I watched an ant. It seems the small ants called in the big guns because this black ant was larger than the rest. He was dragging what looked like a flake from the crust of a coronetto. This "flake" as I call it for lack of a better word was 1 cm. X 1cm. He actually walked backwards, dragging his burden (or was it a treat?) behind him. At one point, he stopped, let go of the flake, and stomped away. I thought perhaps he grew fatigued, frustrated, and had given up. I think he thought twice about it and after about six inches, which I think would be the equivalent of an eighth of a mile in people terms, he returned to the tidbit. It must have been too sumptuous to leave behind. I watched for a few seconds as he tried first to push it and then tried to lift it over his head. He could not, so he resigned himself to the dragging and the walking backwards. Why at that moment did I want to help? Why did I want to relieve him of his burden by doing it for him? As this fleeting thought passed, my husband, burdened with our coffee drinks, sugar packets, and stir sticks, arrived and diverted my attention just long enough to lose the ant. I wonder if he ever made it to his hole, the one he calls home.