The afternoon sun, a blazing ball of blinding brightness, inched its way down the azure meadow that was the sky. The thermometer in the truck claimed it was 29 degrees. The talking head on the golden oldie station that we were listening to announced that it was 30 degrees and the humidex was 63. With gas at a buck 13 nine a litre, we were cooling the truck the old fashioned way; windows down, drive like hell, don’t try to talk because the roar of the wind is too loud to hear anyway and that ain’t a bad thing when you don’t have anything to say, and hope there isn’t a cop trying to make his or her quota somewhere along the way.

The speedometer read 119, which isn’t that fast considering they were kilometers rather than miles per hour. “Puppy Love” was the song blasting from the radio. Since I was feeling a little constipated, I didn’t switch stations. I noticed that whatever the green stuff they were growing in the two endless fields that bracketed the highway seemed to be recovering from all the rain. A skinny guy, sans shirt, was jogging westward with a smile on his face. I assumed he either had gas or was living in an alternate reality.

I felt something strike me by the corner of my left eye. It felt as though someone had rammed a red hot needle in me. I bellowed a few words that, if heard, possibly soured the milk in the herd of Mennonite cows that were grazing in the field. I brushed at my face and saw a small object falling toward the floor of the truck. With my thumb and forefinger, I tweezed a stinger that was long enough to be a fencing foil from just short of my eye.

Kat looked wide eyed at me as though I had just spat out the last marble I have been holding in my mouth all these years. “Is something wrong, baby?” she asked over the roar of the wind.

“Fuck no, Kat. I always scream and swat at my head to entertain you. Are you entertained?” Okay. That isn’t what I said, but I could have been thinking it.

“I think a bee flew his little ass in here and stung me,” is pretty close to what I actually said as I handed her the damned bee harpoon.

“Are you okay?” she asked with a liberal dose of concern in her voice.

“Yes, I’m okay. Screaming is a signal that all is well in my fucking world.”

There was that little moment of hurt silence. Any man reading this knows exactly what I mean. Of course, I immediately apologized. I may be crazy, but I’m not stupid. Okay. I may be stupid, but not that stupid.

We pulled into the driveway and I shut off the engine. When I got out of the truck, I looked down at the floor mat. The little bastard was laying there with his legs kicking in a death throe. “Suffer, you muthafucha,” I chortled with glee. Notice that I chortled, not giggled. Buffalos do not freakin’ giggle.

Kat looked down at god’s little creation, took off her sandal and beat it to death. In fact, she pureed the poor little thing. She was muttering something about not ever stinging her baby. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that they had only one sting in them and that one sting meant they were headed for wherever in the hell they go.

In the house, I sit down at the computer to see if I had in mail. I didn’t, not that I would have been able to read it. Kat was all over me checking the damage and asking me questions. Apparently, she thought the recent spider bite may have caused me to become allergic to stinging critters.

“I’m fine,” I assured her. “I’m just a little light headed and my pulse is kind of elevated and I’m having a little trouble catching my breath. It will pass in a moment.”

“Oh My God. We have to get you to the emergency room,” she panicked.

“Why?” I asked.

“You may be going into anaphylactic shock. Come on!”

“I’ll be okay.”

“This isn’t one of those wait and see things. Get off your ass and in the truck.” Damn, that sounded a whole lot like unfriendly and a whole lot like authoritative.

“I was just bull shitting you. I’m fine. My pulse is slow and steady. My breathing is fine. I’m only light headed because you are near me.”

She said something in low German and it is probably a good thing because I don’t think she was calling me sweetheart.

Life is sweet – even though it is obvious Canada hates me.