The Case of the Double Bumblebee Sting by John R. Erickson

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    G ive up? I knew you’d never guess.
    Wallace and Junior the Buzzards.
    I saw them floating around in the sky above me and hoped they would go away. They didn’t. They kept gliding around in circles and dropping closer to the ground with each circle until, with much thrashing of air and flapping of wings, they landed in the elm tree, right above me.
    I didn’t growl or bark at them (too much trouble with the swollen face and everything) but I did glare daggers at them. What did they do? Well, they stared at me, craning their long skinny necks and twisting their ugly bald heads.
    Have you ever been stared at by a couple of hungry buzzards? It’s no fun, take my word for it. It does something to a guy’s self-confidence. I mean, even if you feel comfortable about who you are, even if you have a strong self-conceit, even if you’re fairly sure that you won’t end up on their dinner plate, there’s just something about their presence that ruins a good day.
    How do they stand each other’s company? Have you ever wondered about that? I have. I can’t imagine spending all day, every day, around a buzzard. How depressing. Maybe that’s why Wallace is always in such a bad mood.
    However, Wallace didn’t seem to be in a bad mood at the moment. He was hopping up and down on the limb and seemed almost beside himself with . . . I don’t know. Wild buzzard joy, I suppose.
    â€œSon, this could be it! This could be the moment we’ve been longing for and waiting for, all these many days! What do you reckon?”
    â€œW-w-well, he h-hasn’t m-m-moved, hasn’t moved, s-s-so m-maybe h-h-h-h-h-he’s . . .”
    â€œHurry up, son, you talk too slow and here I am, starved down to bones and pinfeathers. Speak up.”
    â€œUh uh, okay. M-m-maybe h-h-h-h-h-h-he’s . . .”
    â€œNever mind, Junior, let’s move along and cut to the bottom line. What is he, and will he eat?”
    â€œW-w-w-well, l-l-let’s s-see.”
    â€œIs he a badger? From upstairs, I thought he was a badger but now I ain’t so sure. I could sure use some badger, yes I could.”

    â€œW-w-well, h-his f-f-face is uh-uh-awfully f-f-fat, awfully fat.”
    â€œYou’re right, son, and most of your badgers don’t have a fat face, so what could he be?”
    They both gawked down at me.
    â€œP-p-p-p-pa?”
    â€œWhat.”
    â€œI th-think he j-j-just b-b-b-b-b-blinked his eye.”
    â€œNo, he never.”
    â€œY-y-yeah, he d-d-did.”
    â€œHe never, and for very good reason. It’s a well­known fact in all parts of this world that dead badgers don’t blink.”
    â€œY-y-yeah, b-but h-he m-may not b-b-b-be a b-b-b-b-badger. Badger. Where’s the s-s-stripe d-d-down his b-b-back?”
    The old man was silent for a moment. “Well, maybe he don’t have a stripe down his back, Junior, but are you going to let little details clutter your mind? For you see, Junior, we don’t eat the stripe, and I won’t turn down a badger just because he don’t have one.”
    â€œY-y-yeah, b-but if he d-don’t h-have a s-s-s-stripe, h-he can’t b-b-be a b-b-b-b-b-b . . . one of those things.”
    â€œBadger.”
    â€œY-yeah, a b-b-b-b-b-b-b-b . . .”
    â€œI hear you, I hear you. All right, fine, maybe he ain’t a badger, so what do you reckon he is?”
    â€œI d-d-don’t know, P-p-pa, but h-he b-b-blinked.”
    â€œHe did not blink.”
    â€œD-d-did too.”
    Wallace turned to his son, puffed himself up, and bellered, “ He did not blink, and how can you say such a terrible thing at a time like this! And scoot over, you’re a-crowdin’ me off of this limb.”
    â€œP-p-pa?”
    â€œWhat!”
    â€œI th-think it’s our d-d-doggie f-friend.”
    Wallace whipped his head around and stared at me. “No, he ain’t our doggie friend, in the first