Bees Botched

The bee exterminator has made his appearance. And now there is no joy in Beeville. It’s lying in pieces in front of the dining room window.

I cannot believe the aggravation my bees have caused. A guy from another company came out, sprayed, and plugged holes. The bees laughed, and each stood up and gave him four middle fingers. One of the exterminator’s employees came out, drilled holes, explored, and gave up. Finally, the exterminator himself arrived. They drilled three holes in the living room wall and ceiling. Then he got on a ladder, with no bee gear, and ripped open the soffit with a hammer and a Sawzall. When I heard him cursing in pain, I knew he had hit paydirt.

The bees were in a four-foot-long cavity between two rafters. When he yanked the soffit boards open, they poured out like chubby kids through a hole in a fence between a fat camp and a Dairy Queen. And they were ready to dance. Unfortunately for the exterminator, everyone but him was either wearing a net or hiding in the distance. So he was everybody’s partner. I believe they nailed him three times, including one Heart-of-Darkness style sting involving a mission up his pant leg.

It may be an honor thing with bees, like when all the Indians wanted to kill Jeremiah Johnson. Maybe stinging the exterminator is like being a bee suicide bomber.

According to the exterminator and his associates, this hive was over a year old, even though I didn’t notice it until maybe six weeks ago. And some of the combs were full of honey. He tried some of it and pronounced it excellent, while an employee made futile remarks to the effect that he probably shouldn’t be eating insecticide. Another member of his crew said this area produces very good honey, and that it tastes like mangoes. Unfortunately, Coral Gables probably bans beekeeping, on grounds that it might be enjoyable and in some way resemble the behavior of people living in freedom. They ban everything they possibly can.

I guess next time, I’ll spring for a fiber optic camera thing and do the bee-hunting myself. Now that I see how it works, it doesn’t seem like a big deal.

I wish it had been possible to get them out with less sawing, but there was no way these bees were coming out, without some demolition. You can see that from the photos. Little rat bastards.

Here is the hole.

Here is the comb.

A commenter complained about me killing useful, wonderful bees, of which the world needs more. I wouldn’t worry. The exterminator says he can tell this hive sent out swarms. Eight times. He counted the queen cells. These are holes in the comb where queens are raised. When a queen comes out, she hits the road and takes half the hive with her. Bees may be in trouble in some places, but here, they are nearly impossible to kill.

I have to say, I got real satisfaction out of stepping on the ones that were crawling around on the ground, retching up bug spray. The bad news? This hive turned out to be located in a place where it couldn’t do any real harm. I could have left it in there.

The bees are dead, and I got the ants walking on their heels. Is there no one on this planet to even challenge me?