In fine spring weather, and in the company of one or more of her human companions, Brooke, the basset hound, will mince daintily across the threshold of the French doors, traverse the wide purple Trex planks of the back porch, toenails clacking, and settle in the southwest corner overlooking the garden, her quivering nose pressed to the insect screen.

In that attitude, her nostrils, which are alleged to be a thousand times more sensitive than yours or mine, are positioned like tiny damp radar dishes, capable of tracking countless bogies in the fields and hedgerows beyond St. Peter’s Church Road.

There she lies in the corner, aimed outward like a ship’s figurehead, tireless guardian of the good ship Olshan, a faithful, genetically programmed early warning system with an Olympic caliber sniffer.

And there she snoozes.

“Look! A trio of young whitetails, bounding toward Shermans Creek!”

(Snore.)

“Hey, it’s that nasty groundhog! It’s so close I swear I could hit it with a rock. I think it’s mocking us!”

(A thoughtful tongue adjustment, followed by a deep sigh and more snoring.)

“Whose cat is that, sitting on our back stairs like it owns the place?”

(Snoozeville.)

“Brooke! Wake up! There’s a huge rabbit in the garden. Literally fifteen feet from your nose. The kind of animal you were bred to hunt. Rise! Up you go! Give in to the dark side!”

(A blood-red eye cracks open, then instantly falls shut.)

But then, just when we think she’s given up on the animal kingdom in favor of living like an invalid, comfortably installed on some sofa or other, content to experience the world in terms of television and snacks, she’ll leap up on her ridiculously tiny legs, her sausage-shaped body quivering with outrage. She’ll bound over to the opposite side of the porch; aim her Howitzer of a neck at some invisible threat; and let loose with a ferocious barrage of deep-chested, primal, territorial barking.

The first time this happened, we were so surprised and excited that we got up from our rockers to cheer her on. “What is it girl?” we asked, patting her rump as her powerful tail beat our knees like a baseball bat.

We looked off to the distance for a credible threat, some wayward mammal that had wandered across the D.M.Z. of St. Peter’s Church Road and unwittingly violated the perimeter of Brookesylvania.

But there was nothing. Nada. Not so much as a frightened squirrel.

Was her nose so sensitive she was barking at something we couldn’t even see? We broke out the binoculars and scanned the cemetery ridge for any sign of the intruder.

Again, nothing.

But the dog was still going berserk.

Was she having a fit? Was this doggy dementia? Was her sleep-addled mind mistaking the outdoor grill for a shiny meat-monster? Was the defiant bluejay, which sat ruffling its feathers on a nearby deck post, reminding her of some old nemesis? Was there a nasty bird in her past?

I mean, it couldn’t be that big bumblebee hovering by the back door.

Could it?

Really, Brooke? A bee?

Alas, it was the bee.

The dog that couldn’t even be bothered to wake up for an invading deer, groundhog, or rabbit — much less protest its presence — was going nuts over a bug.

Still, I had to admit she had interesting taste in bugs. This was no ordinary bee. First of all, it was huge, almost the size of my thumb. The buzzing of its wings was a big, boisterous sound — an electric bee, if you will, in a world of acoustic bees.

And then there was its odd behavior: hovering for long minutes at a time, boxing the compass like a sentry. Occasionally, another huge bee would swoop down and bash right into it, at which point the two bees would fly off circling each other and bonking heads until the interloper retreated. Then the victor would once again set up shop, hovering paranoiacally until the next challenge.

That evening, I noticed a few holes in the rafters of the little roof over the back door. The holes were quite large and perfectly round, as if someone had taken a 1/2” drill bit to the wood. There was even some fresh sawdust on the deck below.

That’s when I saw the face of a bee nestled in one of the holes, looking down at me like a sewer worker peering out of a manhole.

I later learned these were carpenter bees, the loners of the bee world, who make their nests in unprotected wood, especially soft wood like 2x framing lumber. The females drill up into the edge, then make an abrupt left or right turn and tunnel along the grain, creating nesting chambers for their larvae.

Carpenter bees lay only a few eggs per year. Each egg is well provisioned, though. The female lays a single egg on a bit of “bee bread,” a ball of pollen and regurgitated nectar, then walls off the chamber with leftover sawdust and spit.

The big hovering bees are the males, who jealously guard their mating territory. While they may seem threatening, especially if they’re hovering between you and your burning burgers, the males are harmless. They lack a stinger. Although that’s not always easy to remember when a monster bee is right up in your face, sizing you up as a potential rival for his harem.

The females, on the other hand, have stingers and will use them, but only if provoked.

I suppose we should treat the nests with pyrethrum dust to get rid of the bees. The burrows will only get larger over time, as each new generation of bees extends the tunnels to create new brood chambers. Eventually, the rafter will be chewed into oblivion.

But for some reason the drone of a hovering carpenter bee says “spring” to me. And I love how its territorial vigilance makes the basset hound crazy.

This is a dog that could learn a thing or two about vigilance.

 

This column was published in the Perry Co Times on 03 May 2012

For more information, please contact Mr. Olshan at writing@matthewolshan.com