Here comes the rain again
Falling on my head like a memory
Falling on my head like a new emotion
-Annie Lennox, David Stewart
I haven’t seen the weather forecast yet, but I can see out the window and across the valley. Call me old fashioned, but this serves better than television. Distant memory reminds me that when the underside of tree leaves are revealed en mass that a new pressure system is moving through, a very certain indication of rain. Oh, and look at that. Downpour. Memory serves correct.
Cat’s Eye Exterminators should be here at any moment to murder our colony of carpenter bees. The ravaging weather seems fitting. It’s a sad day when these beautiful, physically harmless, cartoon-like creatures must be destroyed. But alas, they must… before our house is reduced to a pile of sawdust.
We live in a log home where the newest decor includes a set of five egg galleries. This is in addition to the reactivation of last year’s initial three. I have since learned that the adults return annually, bringing their successive generations along for the ride. Read: “exponential increase in damage year after year.”
Once our logs are penetrated, we can’t simply rent a crane, lift off the roof and pop a new log in. Thankfully, just the moldings have been breached. Neatly chewed gallery entrances, complete with a 90 degree turn into a four foot tunnel, are slowly being filled with the reproduction of next year’s carpenter bee labor. Essentially, it’s us or them. Since we have no intention of reproducing, the odds are not in our favor.
The cost of war is high. Nearly $300 buys us one tour of duty from the Cat’s Eye brigade. Napalm included. The Shock and Awe Campaign recommends four additional strikes at $85 each. If that doesn’t make the bees retreat, next year’s Cat’s Eye battalions are on the house. They mean that literally.
It’s 7:15. The first strike was to take place at 7:00. Our troops are probably detained by the weather. Or this could be a ploy to lull the bees into a false sense of security, you know, in the event that they tapped in near the phone line and overheard our strategy. I can’t speculate out loud for fear of tipping off the enemy. Either way, the end is near.
It’s a sad, sad, sad day.