By Samantha Bennett

Have hive, will beekeep. If you have yet to read Part One of this Insectasaga, do so now. 

When last we saw our hapless heroes, the ladies (and stud drones) were safely installed roof-top.

We have a cat. She is two years of age and answers to Piper. She has the markings of an ocelot and a boundless fascination for life. We knew she would find the hive irresistible, so Bryan and I built a makeshift fence made of found wood and chicken wire. We left it good and bendy at the top so the furry wench could find no purchase, when – not if – she tried to climb in.

The first full day with the bees dawned bright and clear. I stepped on to the deck to peer across the roof to the hive. The ladies were up, swooping and dipping, establishing their bearings. Piper brushed past my knees and scampered over, already on two legs, front paws joyfully batting at the beasties. I spoke sharply to her. She gave me a baffled look, sunk onto her belly and peered around. A few bees flew down to check her out. She swatted. Her expression changed and she was up, ears flat, and streaking across the roof.

When a bee stings it releases an alarm pheromone which alerts the others to the intruder’s whereabouts, helping them to zero in on their target. I vaulted over the deck fence, scooped her up and high-tailed it inside. No bees followed. I dosed her with 8 mgs of Benadryl and watched her closely. She got pretty stoned off the antihistamine, but otherwise no ill effects. Last year she was stung on her paw, which swelled up to Roger Rabbit size proportions for 24 hours. She was in no pain, but occasionally lifted it to her face to peer at it, then at me, perplexed. We assumed she had learned her lesson. Nope.

For the next few days, she veered clear of the hive, until one afternoon when I looked out and saw her inside the fence, on top of the hive, sharpening her claws on the roof. Half a dozen bees were already circling her. I attempted another deck fence vault, catching my crimson Kimono on a rusty nail. Piper had somehow knocked down one side of the fence and waltzed right in. I scruffed her, swung around and beetled inside. Once again, no bees followed. They are not wasps. Wasps are carnivorous, aggressive (must be the meat) and can sting repeatedly. Not so the bee.

Nevertheless, they had to go. Piper was not going to give up and I had nightmares of her, festooned in bees, lunging about the roof-tops, before dying a puffy, swollen death. We needed to find the ladies a new home. But where? Bryan found the solution. Five years ago, an anarchist collective known as Les Amis Du Champs des Possibles had co-opted a huge field near the train tracks. It was a toxic, hazardous wasteland. They guerrilla-gardened it into a beautiful space full of wildflowers and edible sprouts. The city re-zoned it so no condos or parking lots can lay claim to it. There’s already a hive there, and they welcomed another with open anarchist arms.

So now all we have to do is move a four-foot long, two-foot high structure full of bees across the roof, through the living room, down four flights of stairs, into the car, and then drive to the field. At night. It has to be at night, explains smiling Bryan, so that all of the bees are back from foraging and bedded down. Gordie and Bryan wrap the structure in saran wrap, cork the hole, and somehow we manage to get the hive into the Field of Possibilities in pitch blackness (save for a miner’s light attached to the hat on my head).

Bryan splits to Spain for a fortnight. Two days after the move, Gordie finds 40 bees on a piece of wood, completely exposed to the elements, and gamely trying to build another hive. They won’t stand a chance. We get them in a travel case, take them to the field and release them outside the hive. It is the last bus home. I watch as a rescued bee meets a sister, who has just flown out to see what all the ruckus is about. They go up on two legs, entwine feelers, and commence grooming each other.

These next weeks are crucial. Bryan could not see the queen in the hive, which may mean she was eaten during her voyage out from the hive to mate. This would be dire. Without the queen to lay eggs, the hive cannot grow, and without growth comes sure death. Will they make it?

Stay tuned.

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Samantha is a writer and comic living in Montreal. She can be reached at samstress3@gmail.com. She cheerfully encourages questions and comments.

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