Stung by a bee

You might think I’m all about serious issues these days, since I’ve been posting about Black Lives Matter and stereotypes and pandemics.

Well, rest assured, my life is just as ridiculous as ever.

About five days ago, we got a puppy. His name is Coby (short for Cobra Kyi, for those of you who are martial arts nerds like my family members). He is small, cute, and very demanding.

He looks truly fierce, doesn’t he?

My house is now carpeted in pee pads and dog toys. My days are spent wrestling over sock ownership. And my nights are spent shlepping the little guy outside every few hours, whenever he starts to whine.

A couple nights ago, I carried him downstairs at 3 a.m. I pointed him toward a safe place to pee. Then I sat down — in my nightgown — on the threshold of my house.

On top of a bee.

That’s right. I sat on a bee at 3 a.m.

And it hurt! I haven’t been stung in years, and I forgot how much it… well… stings!

“What was a bee doing on your doorstep?” my friend said, when I told her the story.

Presumably, he was sleeping. Which is something I hope Coby and I manage to do, too, sometime soon.

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