Last night as I got into bed to retire, I felt a small stab in my upper back as I lay down. Huh. I got up, looked to see if the dogs had maybe dragged something sharp into the bed, a twig or somesuch, but didn't see anything.
I brushed off the sheet, reclined again, and began reading.
The spot got kind of itchy. What is that? About which time I looked up to see a bee flying around the room.
To those who think that The New Yorker is a liberal rag with no use save to support left-wing loonies, let me assure you that a folded copy of the 'zine is an excellent bee-smasher.
It was only then that I put two and two together and realized that the little sucker had stung me. What it was doing on my bed, just under the edge of my pillow? Who knows?
The term "bee" is inaccurate, since it is -- was -- almost certainly a common wasp, aka a yellow jacket. It didn't leave the stinger behind as honeybees do. It was one of the critters that fill up the wasp and hornet traps in the warm seasons. Doesn't seem as if these things would be around in the Oregon winter, especially after a couple of hard freezes, but there it was.
Fortunately, I'm not allergic to such things.
Never a dull moment.