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It seems that I have become a victim, yet again, of the perennial confrontation between insect and rider. But unlike my first moth encounter, this was not long ago and far away. This was only last summer and in my front yard. True, I was riding my lawn tractor, not my bike, but the essentials of the interspecies contest were the same.
One Sunday afternoon, as I toiled under the searing summer sun performing the onerous duties of my domestic servitude (the fate of so many men, good and true), I was sneakily attacked by some unknown stinging insects. What was my transgression meriting this vicious assault on my naked knee, for I was only inoffensively mowing while modestly garbed in shorts and t-shirt? I could not tell and, although I searched diligently, nor could I identify the villainous beasts and locate their nest. I abandoned my chore with unseemly haste and fled indoors. Despite wifely ministrations to the innocent limb, my leg below the knee swelled up to prodigious proportions. Unable to determine neither the cause nor the perpetrators, I dismissed the attack as a random fly-by stinging.
After two weeks of beholding my half-mowed front lawn, shame of the neighborhood, I steeled myself to try mowing the scene of my ignominy again. Being somewhat wary of a repetition, I clad myself in long pants, long-sleeved shirt and baseball hat, despite nervously sweating in the heat like a chauvinist interloper in the ?Ladies Only? forum. All went well until??another stinging attack by unknown assailants, this time on the left shoulder and right ear. Practice makes perfect, and my pusillanimous flight into the safety of the house was swift. Swelling of the assaulted parts was equally rapid. This time my wife?s attentions were an equal mixture of mercy and mirth. Although the shoulder reacted, it was the wounded ear which provoked hilarity. This usually normal appendage ballooned majestically. However, its size was not so much the problem as the angle which swelling had forced it to adopt. Imagine, if you will, Ross Perot. Now render one of his impressive ears normal while expanding the other to even more grotesque proportions. You now see me in my parlous state.
My wife cautioned me not go out in public, regardless of need. Her reputation was at stake. Being known as the spouse of a lopsided ?Dumbo the Elephant? was not a notoriety that she relished.
As the day faded into a tranquil twilight, I emerged from the house to stalk my cowardly assailants. Secure in the knowledge that wasps, bees and such return to their nests in the evening hours, I examined the scene of the crime with a vengeful diligence. At last I found their home, in which the little swine were no doubt dozing peacefully while dreaming of more enjoyable exploits against humanity. It was an incons_picuous hole in the ground, where the lawn abutted the roots of a willow tree??a yellow jacket nest. Following Caesar?s famous pronouncement, ?I came, I saw, I??fled?, to the garage to get a couple of cans of wasp & hornet spray. ?Take a whiff of this?, says I, profligately emptying both cans down the nest?s orifice. Exhausted and triumphant, I went to bed.
Restful slumbers eluded me, however, with nagging thoughts of the hardiness of insects. Therefore, the following day I crept stealthily to within viewing distance of the nest. Not too close, mind. Just close enough to use my binoculars to search for pi$$ed-off survivors. Lo and behold, there were the little black and yellow bastards flying around as if nothing untoward had happened. It was time to run away bravely and ponder more deadly schemes.
?I shall just have to dig them out?, I reluctantly concluded. That evening, I emerged into the yard dressed appropriately. Swaddled from tip to toe, my neighbors could have been forgiven if they thought they were witnessing the ?Return of the Mummy?. Feverishly wielding my spade, I exhumed the nest. Two more quick cans of spray, and I beat a tactical retreat.
The following morning, after a cup of tea to still my trembling hands, I approached the nest again, this time with a garden hose. Plunging the hose end into the crater that had been their home, I then unloosed the deluge. ?Take that, you little bastards. Let?s see if you can swim?, says I, capering madly round the hole making breast-stroke motions. Quite what any witness might have thought while watching my antics, I cannot tell. I can only swear that no one summoned the police. I had seriously considered dowsing the buggers with gasoline first, and then incinerating them. However, I was pretty sure that a gas-powered launch of my willow tree into low orbit would attract the authorities. Nevertheless, a contemplation of plague (spray), fire and flood as an overwhelming demonstration of ?Shock and Awe? had held some appeal.
Today, this epic battleground between man and beast rests peacefully under a carpet of newly-sown grass. I can only hope that my future relations with the insect world are similarly tranquil.
One Sunday afternoon, as I toiled under the searing summer sun performing the onerous duties of my domestic servitude (the fate of so many men, good and true), I was sneakily attacked by some unknown stinging insects. What was my transgression meriting this vicious assault on my naked knee, for I was only inoffensively mowing while modestly garbed in shorts and t-shirt? I could not tell and, although I searched diligently, nor could I identify the villainous beasts and locate their nest. I abandoned my chore with unseemly haste and fled indoors. Despite wifely ministrations to the innocent limb, my leg below the knee swelled up to prodigious proportions. Unable to determine neither the cause nor the perpetrators, I dismissed the attack as a random fly-by stinging.
After two weeks of beholding my half-mowed front lawn, shame of the neighborhood, I steeled myself to try mowing the scene of my ignominy again. Being somewhat wary of a repetition, I clad myself in long pants, long-sleeved shirt and baseball hat, despite nervously sweating in the heat like a chauvinist interloper in the ?Ladies Only? forum. All went well until??another stinging attack by unknown assailants, this time on the left shoulder and right ear. Practice makes perfect, and my pusillanimous flight into the safety of the house was swift. Swelling of the assaulted parts was equally rapid. This time my wife?s attentions were an equal mixture of mercy and mirth. Although the shoulder reacted, it was the wounded ear which provoked hilarity. This usually normal appendage ballooned majestically. However, its size was not so much the problem as the angle which swelling had forced it to adopt. Imagine, if you will, Ross Perot. Now render one of his impressive ears normal while expanding the other to even more grotesque proportions. You now see me in my parlous state.
My wife cautioned me not go out in public, regardless of need. Her reputation was at stake. Being known as the spouse of a lopsided ?Dumbo the Elephant? was not a notoriety that she relished.
As the day faded into a tranquil twilight, I emerged from the house to stalk my cowardly assailants. Secure in the knowledge that wasps, bees and such return to their nests in the evening hours, I examined the scene of the crime with a vengeful diligence. At last I found their home, in which the little swine were no doubt dozing peacefully while dreaming of more enjoyable exploits against humanity. It was an incons_picuous hole in the ground, where the lawn abutted the roots of a willow tree??a yellow jacket nest. Following Caesar?s famous pronouncement, ?I came, I saw, I??fled?, to the garage to get a couple of cans of wasp & hornet spray. ?Take a whiff of this?, says I, profligately emptying both cans down the nest?s orifice. Exhausted and triumphant, I went to bed.
Restful slumbers eluded me, however, with nagging thoughts of the hardiness of insects. Therefore, the following day I crept stealthily to within viewing distance of the nest. Not too close, mind. Just close enough to use my binoculars to search for pi$$ed-off survivors. Lo and behold, there were the little black and yellow bastards flying around as if nothing untoward had happened. It was time to run away bravely and ponder more deadly schemes.
?I shall just have to dig them out?, I reluctantly concluded. That evening, I emerged into the yard dressed appropriately. Swaddled from tip to toe, my neighbors could have been forgiven if they thought they were witnessing the ?Return of the Mummy?. Feverishly wielding my spade, I exhumed the nest. Two more quick cans of spray, and I beat a tactical retreat.
The following morning, after a cup of tea to still my trembling hands, I approached the nest again, this time with a garden hose. Plunging the hose end into the crater that had been their home, I then unloosed the deluge. ?Take that, you little bastards. Let?s see if you can swim?, says I, capering madly round the hole making breast-stroke motions. Quite what any witness might have thought while watching my antics, I cannot tell. I can only swear that no one summoned the police. I had seriously considered dowsing the buggers with gasoline first, and then incinerating them. However, I was pretty sure that a gas-powered launch of my willow tree into low orbit would attract the authorities. Nevertheless, a contemplation of plague (spray), fire and flood as an overwhelming demonstration of ?Shock and Awe? had held some appeal.
Today, this epic battleground between man and beast rests peacefully under a carpet of newly-sown grass. I can only hope that my future relations with the insect world are similarly tranquil.
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