Buzz, on the blanket on which he buzzed his last buzz, in front of the window he came and went through. Photo: Denise Duguay
If, as I told my colleague DB the other day, there had not been another witness, that being my longtime collaborator and conjoint Johnny Cash Junior, I might have thought that I had made up wee Buzz. But I did not. The tiny corpse on the blanket is proof. But how else, other than ghost story or visitation or hallucination, might our time with Buzz be explained?
“Take care of ‘im. They’re becoming endangered …” DB wrote a few weeks back on Facebook after I wrote that JCJ and I were being regularly visited in our bedroom by an enormous bee, about the size of the end of my thumb.
I already had DB’s concerns in mind, but I was also a little worried about getting stung. JCJ hit the web and discovered such bees only sting when their nests are threatened.
Ah, nests. Also concerned about nests. Wobbling on the knife edge of wanting and not wanting to know if there was a nest of baby Buzzes (of course we had to name it), I plunked firmly down on the side of not wanting to know. Or, rather, advising JCJ that “we should really check.” Yeah.
We came to love Buzz, though it was not love at first buzz. The visits had been coming since late March, after we gratefully opened our (screenless, here in downtown Montreal) windows to the spring air. The visits usually began at about 5:30 a.m. Usually just loud enough to wake me.
At first, half asleep, I thought some bonehead was stopping and starting a lawn mower off in the distance. Second and third times this made little sense even to my half awake brain. Then, midday, at work, something made me think, “What if it’s a wasp? Dopey from the cold and lost?”
Read the rest of this entry ?