Mornings on the deck-dock are about as good as anything ever gets in life, I'm sure. We get up eeeeeearly. I LOVE COFFEE. It's been really cold. This morning the Bee bounced out of the ether and decided to keep Clover and me company. Usually when C and I are out there in the morning the Bee perches somewhere across the yard and stares at us. And I really do think that she thinks, "Isn't this nice, just us three girls, all hanging out here together!" Even though she's twenty-five feet away. I giggle. This spring she turned eleven years old. We've had her since she was no bigger than a bird. She's such a funny, weird, sweet little creature. Clover-dog and Violet-cat are two of the least self-conscious animals I've ever known. They will each splay themselves on top of just about anybody within reach, and look at them with big trusting eyes, and roll over for a belly rub at the slightest invitation. Not so our socially awkward, chronically skeptical Bridget (a.k.a. the Bee). The Bee, though she looks like a fluffy baby bunny, is made of rubber-bands about to snap. Every once in a while, like this morning, I'll find myself the object of her rather fraught and twitchy sort of interest. It's both very flattering and super nervewracking. Suddenly she's there (she's spring-loaded), prancing around (she's tiny) on the arm of my Adirondack chair. She tries to figure out how to get her head petted and almost falls off the chair. She hot-foots it back and forth across my lap a few times as if walking on glowing coals. She stands with all fours on my lap for a minute, kneading me with her ten tiny needlelike claws. I hold my breath and do everything I can to keep from moving — it hurts — but I can't stop myself: An involuntary "Eeeeeeeeeeeouch!" squeals out of me, and boing!, she is over-and-out, halfway across the yard before I can even blink. Being a Beekeeper is occasionally scary. She's so unpredictable you're never sure if she's going to be nice to you or punch you in the face. I think today she was trying to be nice, if you call suddenly tattooing someone's inner thigh as they're sitting quietly outside at six o'clock in the morning wearing absolutely nothing but a thin white nightgown while trying to drink coffee and mind their own business nice.
In other fauna news, the hermit crab I am babysitting for one of my little neighbors across the street looks like it has almost finished eating its own exoskeleten that it shed last week, the thought and sight of which has made me want to throw up about seven times a day every day that he's been here. But I still kind of love him.