copyright Jennifer Pendergast
Old Rusty went to heaven yesterday. A man couldn’t have asked for a better giant bee companion.
It wasn’t just his honey-making superpowers. That paid the bills, but he was also a real sweety—the way he liked getting scratched behind the wings and how he got all excited about the annual apiary box social.
I can see him now on one of his grizzly hunting trips. He wouldn’t kill ‘em; just play with them a while. Nobody could make a grizzly wet itself in terror as fast as Rusty.
Somehow, a dog just isn’t going to cut it anymore.
“Mr. Prime Minister, I have disturbing reports from the Pickering Nuclear Plant. It’s bees, sir.”
“Dear God! You mean . . .”
“Yes, sir. Canadianized bees. They’re so huge they only drink maple sap, boring holes with their auger-like stingers.”
“Is there any good news?”
“They’re quite polite—they always ask before stinging someone. Almost no one says yes.”
“Should we warn the Americans?”
“The bees don’t really like heat. Some go to Florida for the winter, but most are heading north.”
* * *
Somewhere in Russia
“Sir, I’ve detected a mass of objects coming over the North Pole.”
“Is it the Americans?”