If each one of the dragon flies on my clothesline is a little revelation waiting to fly, it went about like this last week.
Since the sick lamb died, we are on watch. We took a fecal sample in for analysis from a different lamb. The vet recommended based on analysis that we treat the whole little flock for some not so nice parasites. Duly noted. Medicine on order.
Meanwhile, bee boys reported trouble in hive #2. Yes, they’re sure. The laying pattern for the eggs is all wrong. I have them consult by telephone with a friend, who advises that poor laying pattern does indeed call for a replacement queen. So I order a new queen, by telephone, to be delivered by mail.
The next day my friend calls. She is going to pick up a few bee things herself in a few days. Do we need anything? As everything bee related seems to be at least an hour away in any direction, this is a good offer. I send bee boys out to reassess the hives and think if there is something else we need.
Wow, they say. Hive 2 is fine now. We don’t need a queen. Hive 1 needs one though. Definite problems there.
Tough questioning yields murky answers. Well, maybe we should get two queens . . . well, maybe their both fine . . . hard to say. Neither will hold an opinion for longer than a minute if I press. I realize with a sigh that my grand idea that a 10 and 13 year old would manage to be the brains of the operation may have some difficulties, but I don’t give up yet, I start pulling things up on the internet. Pictures.
Look, I say. We’re going to be logical. Here are pictures. Point to which egg pattern you are seeing.
There is silence, then: Is that really what eggs look like?
So yes, I give up for now on not being involved. Boy one and I head out to the hives despite the late hour. He touches everything. I boss him around. He expresses amazement that there is something different about my brain. Like I just don’t give up until I figure everything out and he can’t believe how helpful that is. I smile and it isn’t such a bad time together.
In one day, the new queen arrived, kids went to swimming lessons, and I drove an hour for the lamb medicine. When I got back, Boy two was obsessed with wanting to know what would happen if it turned out that one of the cats was a girl. I said we dealt with disasters when they occurred and kept getting dinner together. Would it mean, he finally asked, that the girl cat would have to go? I said of course not. He then announced, followed by demonstration that in fact, our little miniature brother kittens from months ago seem to have developed rather differently than expected.
The debate on what now to call Filippo rages.