bug snappers

The bees behind my house are big and fat and perfect. Harmless buzzers buzzing busily (if sluggishly) about until I notice that they're chewing holes in the poles that hold the roof up over the porch.

But whatever.

I rent.

Yesterday, one hovered, drunk on wood, needle to nose (or whatever sniffs on one of those) with Fred, and it took all the pup's willpower not to SNAP that brave and foolishly curious bee. Fred's great joy in life is chasing bugs and SNAPping them and this bug was just begging to be bagged.

"Nooooo Fred," I said low and though he vibrated visibly with bug snapping fervor, he sat super still, only his big, bug eyes growing a bit bigger, a bit buggier. If you can't bite them, be(e) them.

"I said 'No,' Fred."

Thing is, if he could manage not to mangle the wee monster (and the bee, in a last act of good would agree not to attack its assassin), I'd let him get one. Because I want one. I want me a big, fat, perfect bee to die a perfectly natural death, leaving a perfectly preserved bee body, so I can gift it to my and Fred's friend Audra, because she loves snapping bugs, too.