Over the weekend, I was informed that my weekend plans involved moving a pile of old, nasty wood that was out in the yard. I would have preferred to go antelope hunting, but it was made very clear to me that I needed to move that wood pile first.
I figured it wouldn’t be too much trouble. I didn’t have to haul the wood away; I just needed to stack it in a less conspicuous place. I could load it into the bed of my truck, haul it to its new home, and be out hunting before mid-morning.
But as typically happens with the best laid plans of mice and men (though I can truly only speak for men), it all went sideways on me in a hurry.
I had dug down to the bottom on the outer edge of the pile, which happened to be fairly neatly stacked. That’s when I started to hear the buzzing. I figured there might be a yellow jacket nest down there, so I started going a lot more carefully. Unfortunately, this also meant more slowly, and I was watching my chances of getting out to chase antelope fading board by slowly moved board.
My wife stood by with the hornet spray, ready to start blasting at the first hint of stinging insects. And sure enough, down under the bottom board, they started crawling out of the nest of old rabbit hair they’d made.
But my lovely bride did not immediately start hosing them down. She realized they were those giant, fuzzy bumblebees, and she didn’t want to kill them. I admit, I didn’t want to, either, at least at first. But then one of the little buggers stung me. Right above the left eyebrow. I decided to let them be for awhile, despite the impact on my day of hunting.
I went out again later, hoping the bees had moved on, but that’s when another bee stung me above the right eyebrow, giving me a matched pair of goose-eggs.
So I did what any guy would do – I went hunting. The bees can have that wood pile.
