Bees Denied Protest Permit

One bright sunny day last summer I looked out my window and there was a large bumble bee repeatedly flying into the glass. Clearly he was trying to get my attention for some reason. I moved to the window and tapped on it. He motioned for me to open it but, being leery of bee stings I was hesitant. Glomming on to my apprehensiveness he made a point of showing me that he was without stinger by rolling on the window to expose all his fuzzy angles.

I expected him to come zooming into my apartment, but instead he ducked his head and lifted his legs in over the window track like a prizefighter entering the ring. 

I decided to take a chance and open the window and just a pinch. I expected him to come zooming into my apartment, but instead he ducked his head and lifted his legs in over the window track like a prizefighter entering the ring. He mentioned that some years ago I had interviewed his uncle Basil regarding the use of bees in landmine detection.

Of course I recalled that post and asked about Basil. My guest informed that Basil was now retired and “Living in a senior bee’s hive”. I asked if he saw him often.

“I try to drop in a couple of times a month or so,” he said. “But he sits there with other old bees droning on about how good things used to be. Pollen was plentiful, people had yet to catch on that male bees have no stingers, the honey was sweeter, and the prices better.”

At this I informed him that I was one of those who was unaware of the stinger-less nature of male bees. But then I remembered how Basil had made quite a to-do about sheathing his stinger while talking to me.

“Ya, he used to pull that one all the time,” he told me. “A lot of the older bees did that to maintain the fear factor. Then along came the internet and now everybody know they were being duped.”

He went on to say that his parents loved all kinds of music and composers including, of course, Nikolai Rimsky Korsakov but that their favourite genre was bebop.

Getting back to my current guest I asked him his name.

“Branford,” he answered.

“Oh,” I said. “Your parents must have been jazz fans. I assume you were named for Branford Marsalis.”

He confirmed that I was correct, he had indeed been named after the great Jazz instrumentalist. He went on to say that his parents loved all kinds of music and composers including, of course, Nikolai Rimsky Korsakov but that their favourite genre was bebop.

With the formalities out of the way I asked Branford if he wanted anything, as I recalled his uncle enjoying a cool sip of water. “No time for that” he told me.

“Fine,” I uttered. “What can I do for you?”

“Well, you are no doubt aware of our diminishing numbers. Bees are disappearing in droves.  The problem in a nutshell is climate change. We used to arrive in the late spring, hang around all summer then bug out in the fall. But now the seasons are overlapping and the temperatures can be hot in October and cool in May. A bee doesn’t know what to wear. Many of my fellow buzzers have succumbed to heat exhaustion or hypothermia.” he explained.

I knew there was a lack of bees, but had never had it brought to my attention by an actual bee.

He continued, “I am here not on behalf of my uncle, but as a senior member of the ‘Bees’ Lives Matter’ movement that we have formed.

I congratulated him on the organization. He elaborated that the movement was all about informing people about the dangers of climate change. I told him he had his work cut out for him if the current president is any indication.

“You see, a large group of people protesting is called a crowd, or a manifestation, or a mob, or but a mass of bees is called a swarm!…”

“Exactly what we are up against,” he said heaving a sigh of frustration. “But it gets worse. Other movements apply for permits to hold demonstrations. In Washington, Ottawa or any city really. We believe this would be an effective tool to get our message across. But we can’t get a permit.”

“Why ever not,” I asked.

“You see, a large group of people protesting is called a crowd, or a manifestation, or a mob, or but a mass of bees is called a swarm! To amass a huge group of us and descend on a city would quickly result in the spraying of insecticide and would wipe out millions of us. It would be a one-way ticket to extinction.”

I understood his conundrum, but I was not certain how I could be of assistance to him and his cause. He told me it wasn’t really me he was relying on for help, but rather my pit bull friend.

“We have watched and read with great interest how your pal and his fellow canines stood up to the pit bull ban, first by skirting it, then by political means. We would like to meet with him.”

So I was to be a go between. I’ll keep you informed.

DCMontreal – Deegan Charles Stubbs – is a Montreal writer born and raised who likes to establish balance and juxtapositions; a bit of this and a bit of that, a dash of Yin and a soupçon of Yang, some Peaks and an occasional Frean and maybe a bit of a sting in the tail! Please follow DCMontreal on Twitter and on Facebook, and add him on Google+

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Pit Bull Take on Montreal Election

With Montreal a mere two weeks from municipal elections and one of the stump speech topics being the pit bull ban – the incumbent mayor is responsible for the current breed specific ban while his main opponent vows to overturn the law if elected – I thought it was time for me to go straight to the … er… pit bull’s mouth and catch-up with my canine friend. I have had two interviews with him which you can read here and here.

I contacted him in the usual manner which, of course, I cannot divulge, but it requires a text message and not an ultrasonic whistle. He was slow to reply but agreed to a short interview, given the seriousness of the issue in light of the election campaign.

I secured the usual payment of Milkbone large dog biscuits and made my way to the designated location. Upon arrival, I was patted down and sniffed fervently by a large pit bull. I have learned not to fear this process, and no longer think the guard dog is going for my jugular when he nears me and stands on his hind legs, although it is still a bit off-putting, dog’s breath and all. Having passed the security check I was nudged into a small room where my interlocutor awaited me.

The room was furnished with a table and one chair. The table was snout high, and dogs don’t use chairs.

“Hello,” I started. “How are…”

“Fine, let’s get to it. I’m very busy,” he cut me off. “First let’s have them.”

At this I obeyed and placed a significant number, but not all, of the Milkbones on the table. I kept some to use later to lengthen the interview if necessary. He sniffed at them, poked at them held one up to the light before tossing it into his mouth.

“Okay, they’re real. Not dollar store knock-offs,” he mumbled.

Thinking I had fulfilled the requirements I began my questioning. “Sir, where do you …”.

Again he cut me off, this time he was tapping a large claw on the table in the vicinity of the biscuits. “All of them.”

“I beg your pardon,” I stalled.

“Put all the biscuits on the table,” he growled. :”I’m a dog. Do you not think I can smell a Milkbone in a pocket two feet away? No more games.”

Sheepishly I emptied my pockets of biscuits and turned them inside out. He stared at me in such a way that I thought he was going to call off the whole thing, but he just shook his head in disgust.

”Have you been following the election campaign?,” I asked.

“Of course,” he snapped. “I’ve been active in trying to unseat this so-called mayor. For us there is only one issue, so the lines have been drawn. Pit bull ban vs no pit bull ban. Very simple, as basic as our very identity” He stated this in a matter of fact way while idly crunching on a biscuit. “It seems abundantly clear which candidate to vote for. Can you imagine many people voting for a man who openly attests his dislike of pit bulls?”

“Well,” I started fully expecting to be interrupted again. “There are other issues such as tax, road conditions, public transit.”

He slowly rose from where he had been sitting at the end of the table and made his way to me. Sitting on the floor he stared at me as if I was totally mad. “Tell me, Sunshine,” he said. “Have you ever had a dog?”

I told him our family had had several dogs when I was a kid.

“Did any of them pay taxes, drive a motor vehicle or take the bus? Did any of them care about green spaces or building permits? I think not. We usually forgo the whole election process, not wanting to sully our paws in the corrupt world of politics. If not for the pit bull ban I can assure you we would not be mobilizing.”

“And just how are you planning to mobilize? What do you have planned?” I asked, hitting my stride.

“Very simple. People cast ballots at polls; dogs pee on poles,” he explained with a smirk.

“But those are two different words, two different things.” I pointed out.

“I don’t like dog licenses – we’re not Volkswagens or Mazdas – but I am familiar with creative license. Polls or poles, you get my drift I hope,” he said.

“So if I understand it is your intention to have masses of dogs mobilize to urinate on polling stations and in fact the actual polls,” I asked.

“Got it in one Sunshine,” he quipped while tossing the last Milkbone into his mouth. “Gotta get going now. Getting the message out to dogs, helping them locate their peeing …er …polling station and encouraging them to drink lots of water takes up most of my time these days. Ciao.”

I thanked him and made my way out of his office under the watchful eye of the security dog. It’s going to be an interesting election.

DCMontreal – Deegan Charles Stubbs – is a Montreal writer born and raised who likes to establish balance and juxtapositions; a bit of this and a bit of that, a dash of Yin and a soupçon of Yang, some Peaks and an occasional Frean and maybe a bit of a sting in the tail! Please follow DCMontreal on Twitter and on Facebook, and add him on Google+

 

Montreal Pit Bulls Take Action Against Ban

This week Montreal’s controversial pit bull law goes into effect. By the weekend the long arm of the law will be extended to the canine world. When the law was first announced I took it upon myself to interview a pit bull. Now that we are about to see how the law works once put into practice I thought it might be a good time to follow-up with my interlocutor once again. But before I could do so he contacted me.

He told me he and many of his fellow pit bulls have gone into hiding.  He wanted to talk with me before the law takes effect.

He told me he and many of his fellow pit bulls have gone into hiding.  He wanted to talk with me before the law takes effect. In an effort to keep his whereabouts secret he informed me by anonymous text message where I should go and when. He told me to wait and one of the members of the resistance would meet me.  

I arrived at the appointed place on time and had waited for just a few moments when I almost jumped out of my shoes as seemingly from out of nowhere a large German Shepherd arrived and leaned against me, almost knocking me over. He was wearing a harness with a handle, hanging from the handle was a pair of sunglasses that, when I put them on I realized were opaque, and a white stick.

The glasses acted as a blindfold and the white stick and “guide dog” completed the effect. These dogs were organized.

The glasses acted as a blindfold and the white stick and “guide dog” completed the effect. These dogs were organized.

After a difficult 15-minute stroll during which, while being led blindly, I tripped over my guide dog several times only to be helped up by good Samaritans, we arrived at our destination. Once I was allowed to remove my blindfold and my eyes adjusted to the light, I could see we were in what appeared to be an abandoned warehouse. As I looked around I could see several pit bulls checking me out. Just as I was getting nervous I noticed my host ambling over to me.

We went through the same process as last time; he patted me down to make certain I was not wired (this time I did not assume he was going to maul me) then he asked to see the biscuits I had brought. It then dawned on me that last time I used the Milkbones as a bit of a bribe to get the interview, but this time he had asked me, so shouldn’t he be giving me something? I guess it doesn’t work that way in the dog underworld.

Once he was pleased I was not wearing a recording device, and he had crunched a few dog biscuits he motioned for me to sit at an old kitchen table under a single naked light bulb.

“So you got here without too much trouble I hope,” he began.

“At least you sent a service dog;  I couldn’t see a thing,” I replied.

“…  in one door as a Pit Bull, out the other as a Doberman or Poodle, perhaps a Great Dane if the dog happened to be big enough.”

“Service dog? Don’t kid yourself,” he told me. “He’s not a trained service dog. He was only playing the part. Frankly I’m a bit surprised you didn’t end up in the canal…. If we were close to the canal…. Which we are not. Understand?”

“Okay, so tell me why I’m here.”

“Look around. We’ve been working very hard since the law was announced,” he explained. “This place is full of dog pelts of every breed known to man except of course for one. Our fellow pit bulls have been dropping by for several months; in one door as a pit bull, out the other cloaked as a Doberman or Poodle, perhaps a Great Dane if the dog happened to be big enough.”

I was certainly taken aback by this news. “But where are you getting these various pelts?”

“Dog cadavers,” he said.

“Cadaver dogs!” I exclaimed.

“No stupid. Cadaver dogs search for cadavers when there’s been a disaster. We use dog cadavers for our pelts.” he told me with a smirk.

“Oh, and just where do you get the dog cadavers?”

“Many dogs sign a ‘Pelt Donation Form’ that, once the pooch passes on, gives a moulting or balding dog a second chance. In this case we feel justified in using them for our cause.”

“That’s amazing! The authorities won’t be able to enforce the law because there won’t be any pit bulls.” I said.

“Many dogs sign a ‘Pelt Donation Form’ that, once the pooch passes on, gives a moulting or balding dog a second chance.”

“Exactly. Once this discriminatory law takes effect most of us will have to lay low at least for a little while,” he elaborated.  “Considering what they will do to us – microchips, castration, permits –  we are going into hiding. But right under the very noses of those who would have us banned.”

At this point one of the pit bulls who had been working away came over to me, barked and put his head in my lap. If the bark didn’t put me away, the proximity of his teeth to my flesh was making me edgy.

“That’s Carl’” said my host. “He’s apologizing for tripping you on the way over here. Remember he is not a real guide dog. We all have to do what we can these days.”

“He didn’t trip me.” I said “The dog who brought me here was a German Shepard. I saw him.”

My host merely grinned and nodded his head, stating “Not a bad pelt job eh?”

While there are plenty of pelts of all breeds – thanks to the kindness and generosity of our departed canine brothers and sisters –  we need something else.

I was gobsmacked when it dawned on me how effective these camouflage pelts were. I asked why he wanted me to meet with me.

He took a piece of Milk-Bone and chewed on it for a moment, then said: “We have a wee bit of a problem. While there are plenty of pelts of all breeds – thanks to the kindness and generosity of our departed canine brothers and sisters –  we need something else. You see, we have run out of Velcro. This has to be purchased, and we have the money – don’t even ask – but we are not welcome in stores.”

“I see, so you want me to buy you some Velcro. That’s easy, they have it at the dollar store.”

At this his right front paw came up like a traffic cop stopping cars. “No’” he said emphatically. “Lives depend on these pelts staying on. What if the cheap imitation Velcro came undone and exposed a pit bull in a Black Lab pelt? Huh, how would you feel then Chief?”

I had to admit he had me there. So I promised to purchase only quality Velcro. I told him I would go to a local fabric store. He suggested I find several such stores so I didn’t raise suspicions as I had a considerable amount of Velcro to buy. He pushed a fat envelope stuffed with cash across the table to me. 

“Get the receipts please, we have bean-counter dogs too,” he told me while rolling his eyes.

DCMontreal – Deegan Charles Stubbs – is a Montreal writer born and raised who likes to establish balance and juxtapositions; a bit of this and a bit of that, a dash of Yin and a soupçon of Yang, some Peaks and an occasional Frean and maybe a bit of a sting in the tail! Please follow DCMontreal on Twitter and on Facebook, and add him on Google+

Squawking Flock – Not Murder – of Crows Explained

Carl and his flock take a break.

For the last week or so my neighbours and I have been awakened just before sunrise by the sound of crows swooping about and cawing, landing in trees and squawking.  Yesterday I had the good fortune to be able to ask one of these crows a few questions when he dropped by my bird feeder.

I watched him munch away for a few minutes through the window until he noticed me and nodded his appreciation for the snack. I slowly opened the window and greeted him.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning sir,” he said pleasantly.

“If you have a moment,” I said. “Can I ask you a few questions?”

“Please feel free,” he replied.

“Mr. Crow,” I began, but he put up his wing to stop me.

“Please, call me Carl.”

“Thank you Carl, I was going to ask why you and your fellow crows, every spring, go through this process of swooping about the neighbourhood en masse at sunrise.”

“Oh that’s simple,” he began. “We are updating our distance service, much like every now and then you may notice a Google vehicle passing along your street with all those cameras on top. They update their map service all the time.”

Trying to impress him with my knowledge of collective nouns I said “Your murder provides a distance service, Carl.”

“First let me point out that we prefer flock and not murder,” he stated.  “We had a terrible time with that collective. People and other birds figured we had a gang mentality, Crips, Bloods and a Murder of Crows; not very nice. We launched a successful Stop the Murder of Crows campaign, that had a positive dual effect.”

“OK, so flock it is, just like seagulls.”

“No, not like seagulls, we are crows.”

No,” I explained. “I mean a flock of seagulls.”

“Are you referring to the New Wave eighties band from Liverpool?” he asked me.

“No, I just mean I will now refer to your group as a flock and not a murder as was once the fashion.” I said trying to get us back on subject.

“Good, because that whole murder thing was very damaging to our reputation. Hopefully it will be heard nevermore”

“Can I quoth you on that?” I asked.

“I may be black, but I am a crow, not a raven, so no ‘quothing’ please, let’s keep this off the record.” he replied sternly.

“Fine, but I am very curious about this updating you are carrying out. And all that noise.”

“It’s simple, we fly about shouting to the recorder crows, those with iPad, the various distances between points on our journey. We then update our service.”

“Okay,” I said. “Please tell me a bit about this service you mention.”

“Certainly, although I imagine you are familiar with it already. It is called ‘As the Crow Flies’ and gives people a much more accurate assessment of the direct distance between two places.”

“More accurate than Google and GPS?” I asked.

“Without question,” Carl replied.

“So you fly about constantly reassessing and updating your service. Do you publish the results in a book?”

“We used to, but now we find it more helpful to post it on the Internet at http://www.asthecrowflies.org.”

He was in a rush to get back to his flock so I thanked him and wished him well. As he was about to leave he said I should consider downloading the app, available for iPhone and Android.

DCMontreal – Deegan Charles Stubbs – is a Montreal writer born and raised who likes to establish balance and juxtapositions; a bit of this and a bit of that, a dash of Yin and a soupçon of Yang, some Peaks and an occasional Frean and maybe a bit of a sting in the tail! Please follow DCMontreal on Twitter and on Facebook, and add him on Google+

 

Interview With a Montreal Pit Bull

Support for Montreal’s proposed ban on pit bulls has dropped significantly since it was first introduced. In the immediate aftermath of the deadly attack on a woman by a dog last June support was strong. Perhaps a bit of a knee-jerk reaction to the sad and tragic incident, without waiting to see how things panned out. As time passes fewer people are in favour of the breed specific ban.

But one opinion has been omitted from the discourse, so your intrepid blogger took it upon himself to go to the horse … er …. dog’s mouth and interview an actual pit bull.

Many have weighed in on the controversial law that, if enacted, would call for pit bulls to be sterilised, to wear muzzles in public, to have microchips inserted and ban future pit bull breeding. Dog owners, non-dog owners, veterinarians, lawyers and many more have expressed opinions, most of them against the law. But one opinion has been omitted from the discourse, so your intrepid blogger took it upon himself to go to the horse … er …. dog’s mouth and interview an actual pit bull.

Arriving at the prearranged secret location my subject, who insisted on anonymity, immediately sprang at me, standing on his hind legs with his forelegs on my chest. “Don’t maul me” I shouted.

“Don’t be a fool,” he replied. “I’m not going to maul you, I’m just patting you down to make sure you’re not wired.”

It’s bad enough you treat other humans based on looks and colour, please don’t bring that trend to the animal world.

Once he was confident I was not representing the government, and my heart rate returned to somewhat normal. I was ready to get going but as I was about to ask my first question he put up a big paw to stop me then tapped on the table with his claw.

“What?” I asked.

“Where are they?”

“Oh yes, here.”

I reached into my pocket and placed a handful of dog treats on the table. He took one, expertly bit off a small piece, like a sommelier with wine he gave it much consideration, crunched it and swallowed it.

“Milkbone, fresh, good quality. Got all I asked for?”

I assured him I had a half box of them packed away in various pockets, just as he had requested. Only then did he agree to commence with the interview; here’s some of our conversation.

DCMontreal: Is it fair to have a breed specific ban?

Pit Bull: Of course not. How are they going to determine the breed? What about mixed breeds? If a dog bites someone and it turns out to be 48% pit bull it’s no big deal, but 51% and it’s off to the knackers yard? The only thing this has done is fuel a black market for false papers. I know purebreds who have papers stating they are only one quarter pit bull. And what if a Doberman rips out someone’s throat? Is that somehow less egregious?

DCM: What about the idea of sterilisation?

PB: Oh, sure, isn’t that a wonderful idea. They lop off our manhood then they’re all surprised when we’re cranky and bite people. C’mon, give me a break, if I can’t be a big shot with the bitches, what’s left? I’ll tell you: biting. And tell me something, isn’t it ironic that the world’s biggest spaying and neutering activist is a guy named Bob BARKER? No part of that guy is dog.

At this point, he again tapped the table and I put down another handful of treats, as he had been snacking while talking.

DCM: And those muzzles. How are you with that idea?

PB: Muzzles are great; on politicians, but not on dogs. Look at that guy in the States Donald Trump. If ever there was an argument for a muzzle it’s him. No, muzzles are way too constricting. Let’s say I’m walking down the street and I see something I want to pick up in my mouth and shake ..

DCM: You mean a child?

PB: No I don’t mean a child. I mean a stick. We love to pick up sticks in our mouths and shake them. But with a muzzle that little bit of enjoyment is gone.

DCM: What about the insertion of a microchip?

PB: That’s no problem. But the anesthetic can be dangerous.

DCM: I don’t believe they use anesthetic. I think they insert it just under the skin with a needle.

PB: (Chortling) I’d like to see the vet who is going to try to put a microchip ‘just under my skin’.

At this point I was out of dog treats and so the interview came to an end. But before we parted he gave me one last statement.

PB: Have you ever seen a Bouvier?

DCM: I’m afraid I don’t move in those social circles. I’ve never even been to the Hamptons.

PB: No no, stupid not those Bouviers I mean the breed Bouvier des Flandres, those dogs that look like big lovable poodles. They are adorable, but given an opportunity they will tear your arm off. Do I hear of a Bouvier ban? Nope. But a mean looking dog such as myself and my fellow pit bulls are another thing. It’s bad enough you treat other humans based on looks and colour, please don’t bring that trend to the animal world.

I had to admit, he had me there.

 

DCMontreal – Deegan Charles Stubbs – is a Montreal writer born and raised who likes to establish balance and juxtapositions; a bit of this and a bit of that, a dash of Yin and a soupçon of Yang, some Peaks and an occasional Frean and maybe a bit of a sting in the tail! Please follow DCMontreal on Twitter and on Facebook, and add him on Google+

It is Called Chicken Wire for a Reason

Say what you will about pigeons, their determination is admirable. I thought the pigeons and the smaller birds who visit my feeder had reached an agreement. But I was wrong.

For the better part of a year I did not see one single pigeon at my feeder while numerous sparrows, finches and chickadees enjoyed having a snack. Then, out of nowhere, much like having a group home for delinquent teens open next door, the pigeons were everywhere. Not happy to scare off the little guys and eat all the seeds, these troublesome birds set about breaking the feeder. They stood on it and reduced it to splinters.

Finally one of them walked over and, bold as brass, stretched his oil-slicked neck far enough to reach the lowest seed hole. Bastard.

I did a little research online and purchased a hanging tube feeder that is designed for small birds. After removing the pieces of the original feeder, I installed the new one outside my window. Within minutes the pigeons were back examining the possibilities of getting their beaks on the seeds. Finally one of them walked over and, bold as brass, stretched his oil-slicked neck far enough to reach the lowest seed hole. Bastard. No big deal I thought, I will just put duct tape over that one hole. Well, you would think he read my mind because before I knew it  he had hopped up and taken a position on one of the perches. Given his size, he could not get at the seed hole immediately in front of the perch, but once again stretching his neck was able to gobble seeds from a higher opening. Bastard.

Undaunted I did even more research and made my way to the local hardware store to purchase a roll of chicken wire. I concocted a mesh bubble with the wire and placed it over the feeder. It was very windy here last night so this morning I was pleased to see that the feeder was still in place within its protective sheath and not lodged in a windshield below.

He looked at me through the window and I believe he said ‘bastard’.

During the night the wet surface of my windowsill froze, making it much like a skating rink. Before long the pigeons were back, but at least this time I had a chuckle as they landed on the ice only to slide off again. Once they caught on to the problem of the icy surface, they returned and made their way to the now enclosed feeder. Sure enough one of them strolled over and tried to access the seeds but was met with a beak full of wire. He looked at me through the window and I believe he said ‘bastard’.

But like Navy Seals pouring out of rafts and scaling the side of a ship, the pigeons used the chicken wire to climb up the feeder and fill themselves with seed intended for smaller birds. I have no idea how to handle this. Maybe I need pigeon wire. Bastards.

DCMontreal – Deegan Charles Stubbs – is a Montreal writer born and raised who likes to establish balance and juxtapositions; a bit of this and a bit of that, a dash of Yin and a soupçon of Yang, some Peaks and an occasional Frean and maybe a bit of a sting in the tail! Please follow DCMontreal on Twitter and on Facebook, and add him on Google+

Trumped by a Pigeon

I put my bird feeder out early last spring. Since that time I have had countless visits from sparrows and finches. Small birds dropping by to pass the time of day and have a few seeds. Polite little fellows, if terribly nervous, who need only sense the smallest movement through the window to fly off to safety, only to return moments later.

All was going swimmingly until I, by chance, looked up at the feeder while walking down the street last Friday to find a large pigeon helping himself to beaks-full of seeds. Not that I have anything against pigeons, but I was concerned for the smaller birds chances of getting a fair shake at the feeder. Why it took the pigeons so long to discover the free chow is a mystery to me.

My first attempt to maintain the sparrows’ place was to post the signs that you see here. This prompted the appearance of a plump gray older looking pigeon on my windowsill. Wearing a waistcoat and spats, he tapped on the glass with his beak to get my attention.

“Excuse me, Friend,” he said gruffly but courteously.

“Yes,” I replied.

“It’s just that we pigeons have a bit of a problem with the signs you have posted on your lovely feeder. Essentially we find them to be discriminatory, not to mention insulting. May I ask why you would have us banned from the feeder?”.

I explained that my intention was to preserve a place for little birds at the feeder, not to discriminate against any one species of large bird.

”Is that so?” he replied in a snippy manner. “Why then did you not portray a crow, grackle or seagull on your sign? No sir, you have singled out pigeons with your warnings.”

I had to admit he had me there. All of those birds can be found in my area yet I had focused on pigeons. Just as I was about to confess my failing, he had another go at me.

“Friend, or should I say Mr. Trump, will you be building a wall around your feeder to keep us out as you seem to consider us to be illegals (no, not ailing symbols of the USA, but birdsona non grata)? No doubt you will inexplicably assume we pigeons will pay for said wall.”

Well that hit home. My visitor had me pegged as the Donald Trump of the bird world, and he was right. As I was in the process of removing the offensive signs he pointed out the difference between birds and humans. Sure enough there they were, small birds munching away on one side of the feeder while several pigeons ate from the other side. They had achieved a harmonious solution to a problem that never existed.

DCMontreal – Deegan Charles Stubbs – is a Montreal writer born and raised who likes to establish balance and juxtapositions; a bit of this and a bit of that, a dash of Yin and a soupçon of Yang, some Peaks and an occasional Frean and maybe a bit of a sting in the tail! Please follow DCMontreal on Twitter and on Facebook, and add him on Google+

Carlos Cicada’s Stormy Night

One of my guests enjoys some seeds.

My singing friend Carlos Cicada and his family have been staying on my street again this summer. The high heat and humidity that we have been enduring lately are welcomed by them; perfect for singing from their treetop lair.

This summer I placed a bird feeder outside our dining room window that has been a big hit with many smaller birds including sparrows and finches. I abandoned the hummingbird feeder after two years without a single visitor, humming, whistling or otherwise. The new feeder holds seeds and is made of wood with plastic windows, it looks very much like a little chalet.

One of the side effects of the high heat and humidity is late day or evening thunderstorms. A few nights ago we had a doozy of a storm. Great lightning display, a few foundation-shaking claps of thunder and buckets of rain.

Before going to bed, as I was closing the window lest our dining room get soaked, I noticed what looked like a small blue light in the now empty bird feeder, all the seeds having been consumed during the day. Upon closer inspection I saw that it was Carlos’ iPad. He and his family had taken refuge from the storm in the bird feeder. I imagine he was using my WiFi, so I reminded him not to repeat the Netflix fiasco of last summer when he used all my allotted download gigabytes watching A Bug’s Life.

“Hello my friend,” he shouted through the plastic siding on the feeder. “We have moved from our tree to this lovely condo for the duration of the heavy rain”. Sure enough there were his wife Consuela and kids Chico and Chica waving out at me. I bid them a safe night and retired to enjoy the fierce weather from the safety of my bed.

The next morning I was shocked to see that, so heavily had it rained, the feeder was flooded. The water had filled the lower portion where the seeds sit. By this time Carlos and family were back in their tree singing away, so I knew they were fine.

Later in the day Carlos dropped by my window, as he does from time to time, and I had a chance to ask him how they had fared. He pointed out that because of the flooding, as the water level was rising, they were forced to sleep in hammocks, suspended above the accumulated water in the feeder.

Evidently cicadas are very resourceful little fellows.

Carlos never ceases to amaze me and this was no exception. He pointed out that the hammocks kept the family dry all night. “Nothing I hate more than wet cuffs on my pajamas, Señor.”

“You wear pajamas?” I asked.

“Of course.” He replied.

Considering his penchant for hot humid climes, I pressed on and asked if he didn’t find pajamas very hot.

“Perhaps, my friend, if they were made of cotton or flannel they would be most uncomfortable, but I only wear silk pajamas.” Carlos informed me.

“Silk?” I blurted. “Nothing but the finest for you I see. That must get a bit expensive.”

“No amigo, I have a friend who is a silkworm, he makes them for me. No retail for Carlos.”

I should have seen that coming I guess …

 

DCMontreal – Deegan Charles Stubbs – is a Montreal writer born and raised who likes to establish balance and juxtapositions; a bit of this and a bit of that, a dash of Yin and a soupçon of Yang, some Peaks and an occasional Frean and maybe a bit of a sting in the tail! Please follow DC on Twitter @DCMontreal and on Facebook, and add him on Google+

 

Disappearing Bees Explained

In honor of World Honey Bee Day, I am re-posting this from last year.

I am learning so many things from the bug world this spring. First there was the eye-opener that earthworms live by a system of rules and regulations, with lawyer worms to keep them on the straight and narrow. Then I was approached by Harold the Emerald Ash Borer to ghost write his reply to all the negative press he and his fellow borers have been getting lately. Now it’s bees.

The other day there was a thump on my window. As I live on the third floor this was somewhat unnerving. I approached the window and looking out could see nothing that would account for the noise. Then I looked straight down at the window ledge and saw a bumblebee the size of a Fiat on the sill. Rotund, he was on his back with legs and wings flailing in an attempt to right himself. “A little help please” I heard through the window. Being a bit of a coward I was in no rush to open my window to the possibility of a visit from a stinging entity, even one who was asking for my help. “I assure you I come in peace” he said. How could I not act? I opened the window, and using a pencil got my visitor to his feet.

… the idea to go into hiding and thereby upset the entire ecosystem in an attempt to keep bees from being used as fodder in the search for explosives, was suggested by the Drones. Worker bees and union lads to the nth degree …

“Many thanks” he said. “Yours are some of the cleanest windows I’ve ever encountered”

“Thanks, and you’re welcome” I replied. I asked him what brought him to my window. It appears word has gotten around the neighbourhood that I am “bug friendly”.

“Allow me to explain sir. My name is Basil, and I am a Bumblebee. I have been selected by my hive members, based primarily but not solely on my ability to speak English, to get our message out to the world. Being a reader of your blog and therefore aware of your recent encounters with my fellow bugs, I thought you could be of assistance.”

I told Basil I was flattered that he read my blog, but didn’t know how I could be of help. However I was willing to listen to his problem. I invited him to come in on one condition; he had to sheath his stinger. This he understood completely and showed me that he had already encased his weapon in a lovely leather holster. So in came Basil. He complimented me on the decor and said I should feel free to drop by his hive some day.

I was pleased to be able to provide him with the saucer of water and sugar he requested in lieu of coffee. With no threat of being stung, I was able to get a good look at his yellow and black furry torso and was taken aback by what I think was styling mousse.

I asked what it was specifically that brought him to me and, in between sips of sweetened water, he told me that the recent news stories about the mysterious disappearance of vast numbers of bees were incorrect. He explained that the bees were not missing, nor had they been exterminated, they were in fact hiding.

“Hiding” I exclaimed. “Where?”

At this Basil merely rolled his eyes and said “if I told you that, it wouldn’t be a very good hiding place, would it chief?”

Everyday we bees leave the hive in search of pollen. Once located we return and proceed to inform our hive colleagues just where the cache is to be found. We do this by way of a complicated dance. Scientists have studied this dance and been amazed by it for generations. On the other hand, dogs fetch sticks

He continued to explain how bees have always been proud of the role they play in the whole ecosystem, but that the latest job suggested for them was a but over the top. It seems someone has come up with the bright idea to use bees as a means of finding explosives. Sniffer bees would be trained to seek out bombs, and mines.

He elaborated: the idea to go into hiding and thereby upset the entire ecosystem in an attempt to keep bees from being used as fodder in the search for explosives, was suggested by the Drones. Worker bees and union lads to the nth degree, they felt this was necessary. And you thought the AFL-CIO was powerful!

“But,'” I protested “you can’t do that”.

Hey, we’re not supposed to be able to fly either, but we do!

It was when I mentioned that sniffer dogs have long been used for this that I understood I had offended Basil and I got what can only be described as a lecture from my little guest. “Everyday we bees leave the hive in search of pollen. Once located we return and proceed to inform our hive colleagues just where the cache is to be found. We do this by way of a complicated dance. Scientists have studied this dance and been amazed by it for generations. On the other hand, dogs fetch sticks.”

Feeling a little put out by Basil’s harsh tone I said I couldn’t imagine him doing much dancing, complicated or otherwise, given his girth. Again he shook his head in disbelief and told me those dances were soon to be a thing of the past. With smartphones equipped with GPS, when bees come upon a stash of pollen they now send a text back to the hive thereby informing the drones where to go.

To say I was gobsmacked would be an understatement. No wonder bees were becoming rare, they had no intention of being used to find explosives. These are not dumb beasts and Basil wanted me to get that message out.

With smartphones equipped with GPS, when bees come upon a stash of pollen they now send a text back to the hive thereby informing the drones where to go.

He finished his water and wiped his mouth with a small handkerchief before starting to buzz. Oh no, here it comes, he’s going to turn on me, I thought. They always say you can’t really trust wild animals; no more civilized gentleman bee, he’s going native on me. How long until he unsheathed that stinger and was having at me? As the buzzing increased I could see Basil trembling; I thought he was going to take flight but instead he pulled out the smallest iPhone I’ve ever seen and said “I always forget when I put it on vibrate. I’m thinking of switching to Samsung. What do you think?”

With that Basil made his way out if my window and off to his hive. But before taking off from my sill, he said there was no need for me to send him a draft of our conversation before I posted it; that he trusted me to get it right. Not coincidentally I fear, he said this as he was removing the holster from his stinger with a funny glint in his little eyes that I still am not sure indicated appreciation or threat!  Yet the next day when I looked I noticed a very small sticker on the lower part of my window that said “Make Honey, Not Bombs” and I knew Basil had been back.

As per today’s Daily Post, what about a Bee who seems to want to me my BFF?

DCMontreal is a Montreal writer born and raised who likes to establish balance and juxtapositions; a bit of this and a bit of that, a dash of Yin and a soupçon of Yang, some Peaks and Freans and maybe a bit of a sting in the tail! Please follow DC on Twitter @DCMontreal and on Facebook, and add him on Google+

High Heat Warning, Visiting Cicadas and Bernie Sanders

A Cicada, evidently from Vermont, arrives to help in Montreal hear wave.

Perhaps known more for our extreme cold, Montreal is currently in the grips of a heat wave. The warning below issued by Environment Canada gives you some indication. Remember those figures are in Celsius; Humidex values between 35° – 40° translates to 95°F and 104°F.

I have heard a rumour that the heat and humidity are so intense that local cicadas have put out a call for their fellow singing bugs from adjacent states and provinces to come and help out.

I have heard a rumour that the heat and humidity are so intense that local cicadas have put out a call for their fellow singing bugs from adjacent states and provinces to come and help out.

One hears of these things during difficult times; requests for firefighters to help with forest fires, or medical technicians. During Quebec’s big ice storm many Hydro-Electric workers from New England came to help get the power flowing again. All in the name of neighborliness.

Well, not exactly. Once things had gotten back to normal and that warm fuzzy feeling of camaraderie had faded into mere pleasant smiles of recollection, the bills arrived. No doubt it works both ways; did the Canadian firefighters who helped in the wake of 9/11 not get paid?

This has always seemed crass to me. Like charging a next-door neighbour for helping him in a time of crisis.

Yet … nobody does anything for nothing.

 

DCMontreal – Deegan Charles Stubbs – is a Montreal writer born and raised who likes to establish balance and juxtapositions; a bit of this and a bit of that, a dash of Yin and a soupçon of Yang, some Peaks and an occasional Frean and maybe a bit of a sting in the tail! Please follow DC on Twitter @DCMontreal and on Facebook, and add him on Google+