A colony of bees took up residence in our backyard about two years ago. I wanted to get rid of the hive, but Julie pleaded the case for the disappearing honey bees, citing everything from our environmental responsibility to the potential for economic devastation should honeybees continue to disappear and thus fail to pollinate American agriculture products, such as corn and soybeans. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Colony_collapse_disorder Apparently a lot was riding on the safety of the honeybee nest growing in our orange tree. Until Sydney was stung on her foot last weekend. It wasn’t a big deal to Sydney, who wasn’t even sure what happened. We got the news from my dad, who was babysitting for us while we were in New York (our first trip sans kids in 5 years). Julie and I were standing on 6th Avenue, near Central Park when the Julie’s cell phone buzzed. Julie listened, thanked Dad for the call and put the phone back in her purse. “I want you to kill those f_ck’n insects,” she said, taking a bite of her falafel sandwich. Sucks for the corn crop, but I had my orders.
Once we returned to St. Pete, I pulled on my best bee fighting garb: camouflage gor-tex jacket, gloves, jeans, and combat boots. For my head, I grabbed the kids butterfly trap, kind of a net barrel with wire circles to hold the shape around my pea brain. Julie had determined that a bug bomb would fit perfectly into the hollow tree know which formed the hive’s front door. By her clean logic, the bug bomb would plug the knot and the fumes would waft upwards through the hollow tree, leaving a trail of tiny insect bodies and bringing peace once again to our backyard.
Roark, my faithful weimaraner, decided to accompany me on the hive assault, more from sheer curiosity at my wardrobe than any desire to be of assistance. Together, we carried the ladder around the house and propped it up against the offending tree. I shoved the bug bomb in my left jacket pocket, a can bee killer spray in my right pocket and started climbing. Bees buzzed about my head as I reached the top of the ladder and balanced against the tree. With my head against the tree, I could hear buzzing from what seemed like every bee in Florida. And it was getting louder. It was time to get this show on the road, before something bad happened.
I looked down at Roark for moral support, but he was occupied taking a poop in the garden. Pulling the bug bomb from my pocket, I felt my training take over. A quick burst of bug killer to clear the entrance while I pressed the release on the bug bomb, and then, with one fluid motion, I crammed the bomb into the tree knot. And it didn’t fit. The can was about a centimeter too big and wouldn’t stick in the hole. Bees charged out through the opening. I chucked the bomb back over my shoulder, jammed my finger down on the bug killer, and aimed the spray into the tree. Full auto.
The air grew foggy and foul as I emptied the bug spray into the hive, and I could barely hear over the crescendo of buzzing, which had grown so loud it was vibrating the ladder. Finally, with the can empty I jumped off the ladder and headed for the pool enclosure. Roark covered our retreat by running in circles around the tree with the bug bomb foaming from his jowls. I would have worried about the health of any other mutt, but Roark dresses in at about 190 and I’ve seen him consume an entire tray of brownies quicker than you read this sentence. He would be fine.
Once I reached the screen door, Roark dropped the can and executed his retrograde, running past me into the house and jumping up on his sofa with a loud fart. I closed the door and went into the kitchen, where Roark joined me to help fix dinner. We decided boiled sweet corn would be the appropriate choice. We should enjoy our vegetables while we can.
Once we returned to St. Pete, I pulled on my best bee fighting garb: camouflage gor-tex jacket, gloves, jeans, and combat boots. For my head, I grabbed the kids butterfly trap, kind of a net barrel with wire circles to hold the shape around my pea brain. Julie had determined that a bug bomb would fit perfectly into the hollow tree know which formed the hive’s front door. By her clean logic, the bug bomb would plug the knot and the fumes would waft upwards through the hollow tree, leaving a trail of tiny insect bodies and bringing peace once again to our backyard.
Roark, my faithful weimaraner, decided to accompany me on the hive assault, more from sheer curiosity at my wardrobe than any desire to be of assistance. Together, we carried the ladder around the house and propped it up against the offending tree. I shoved the bug bomb in my left jacket pocket, a can bee killer spray in my right pocket and started climbing. Bees buzzed about my head as I reached the top of the ladder and balanced against the tree. With my head against the tree, I could hear buzzing from what seemed like every bee in Florida. And it was getting louder. It was time to get this show on the road, before something bad happened.
I looked down at Roark for moral support, but he was occupied taking a poop in the garden. Pulling the bug bomb from my pocket, I felt my training take over. A quick burst of bug killer to clear the entrance while I pressed the release on the bug bomb, and then, with one fluid motion, I crammed the bomb into the tree knot. And it didn’t fit. The can was about a centimeter too big and wouldn’t stick in the hole. Bees charged out through the opening. I chucked the bomb back over my shoulder, jammed my finger down on the bug killer, and aimed the spray into the tree. Full auto.
The air grew foggy and foul as I emptied the bug spray into the hive, and I could barely hear over the crescendo of buzzing, which had grown so loud it was vibrating the ladder. Finally, with the can empty I jumped off the ladder and headed for the pool enclosure. Roark covered our retreat by running in circles around the tree with the bug bomb foaming from his jowls. I would have worried about the health of any other mutt, but Roark dresses in at about 190 and I’ve seen him consume an entire tray of brownies quicker than you read this sentence. He would be fine.
Once I reached the screen door, Roark dropped the can and executed his retrograde, running past me into the house and jumping up on his sofa with a loud fart. I closed the door and went into the kitchen, where Roark joined me to help fix dinner. We decided boiled sweet corn would be the appropriate choice. We should enjoy our vegetables while we can.
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