On May 7 and 8, 1945, the Allies celebrated their victory over the Third Reich. In London, millions gathered in a near-carnival atmosphere to mark the end of a long nightmare.

While our celebrations were nearly so huge, K and I did exchange a laugh over the end of the Yellow Jacket War this weekend, after the last pockets of resistance were flushed out and destroyed.

I went down Saturday morning about nine, just before mowing, to see if I could root around with a shovel and find the nest. I’d been making daily observations at dusk the whole week and had not seen a single infantryman (infantry-wasp?) in that period. Just to be sure, I’d doused the area liberally with more wasp killer.

In short order, the tip of my shovel turned up the yellow jackets’ lair…

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And it was absolutely covered with yellow jackets.

DSC_9626The shovel fell with a thud as I sprinted for my life. Not literally, for I’m not allergic to them, but their stings do indeed burn. I soon realized that none were following. “Perhaps these are specialized workers who aren’t as aggressive as those who hunt and gather — and defend,” I thought. Deciding to take a chance, I crept back down the hill in the early evening and found the nest still covered. I gave them a shot of bad medicine (you had to know that was coming at some point), ready to run. Yet none attacked.

Their mistake.

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There’s something perversely satisfying about holding a significant portion of your enemy’s entire base in your hand…

(“That looks burned,” some might think. Indeed. When I brought the nest in, I noticed that there were a couple of larvae still wriggling about. “Immolation is the only sure method,” I muttered — rather, “I guess I’ll have to burn these suckers” — so I took the nest out, put it on several layers of aluminum foil in the driveway, sprinkled a few drops of gas on them…)