I've been pretty smug about the fact that it's been a couple of months and not one bee sting. (For humans that is. The Carniolans nailed a tenacious heeler dog who stuck her nose right into the front door of the hive a while ago.) Until last night.

I've been told countless times, and I've read countless times, that bees and clouds don't mix. A cloudy day is a day when it's best to not open your hive and peek inside. It's best to leave your bees snug in their little home, undisturbed. It's really a good idea to not pull any frames when the thunder clouds are rolling in. Clouds make bees ... cranky.

But I did it anyway.

The Carniolan hive is the liveliest of the two. The Carniolans hang out on their front porch. A whole slew of them. All at once. They are busybodies. They remind me of the locals in Boston's Little Italy on a Friday evening when the restaurants are just opening up. Sitting in their folding plastic chairs on the sidewalks with the air redolent with garlic. Or like rednecks sitting in their plastic chairs in the garage to watch a rain storm because they don't have a front porch. Or, because those rednecks just like their garage and the view from that particular vantage point. If the Carniolans were your neighbors and not bees, they might be prone to having a garage band. And motorcycles. Carrrrrrniolan--I had a friend in gradeschool whose last name was Carnabucci--they sound like Mafia to me.

When I cracked open the inner hive cover, the Carniolans' buzzing stepped up a notch, which is not what they do on nice, sunny days. On nice sunny days, essentially, they ignore me, and life moves on at a gentle hum. Or, some of the more curious cling to the tops of the frames and peer at me from just inside.

So here I was trying to scrape--ever so carefully and every so gently while breathing slowly and methodically in an attempt to not give out any vibes that I was even remotely concerned about the thousands of winged, barbed beasties inside--some comb the bees had decided to build on top of the frames, instead of inside where it belongs. (Give a bee a little room, and she'll fill it up with honeycomb or propolis.) I didn't notice the single fuzzy (did you know that bees are actually kind of furry???) bee butt sticking up out of one of the soft wax cells as she diligently worked away. And when I scraped the comb off of the top of the frame, she became very unhappy with me. Before I knew what hit me, I'd been soundly stung on the middle finger of my left hand.

I didn't flinch or shout. Don't get me wrong, it hurt. It stung. But I felt more sad than anything to see her little stinger sticking out of my finger. Because that means she's dead, poor tiny, industrious, sweet creature. I pulled the barb out and from the corner of my eye saw something terrifying. Something like a hundred bees poised on top of the frame, shining eyes riveted on me, ready to ...

what?

attack?

Their buzzing had increased to a gentle roar.

Defend their home from this marauding she bear who didn't even have the good sense to wear her bee suit on a cloudy day?

The Carniolans' buzzing was now the growl of thousands of effervescent wings, like the whole hive was one living thing. I almost expected the hive box to take off right over the mesa.

Glad I had that smoker in my other hand. A few gentle puffs of smoke, and the Carniolans were just about as quickly all heads down, shiny bee butts up, working on the comb like it never happened.

I hope.

I hope they've forgotten by now how mad I made them. I hope they don't hold, you know, grudges. Enough indelicate incidents, and they just might. And I'll try to stick to sunny days, which in New Mexico, is a pretty easy thing to do.