It never fails. Whenever you are outstanding in your field, there is always a critic close at hand who disapproves of your efforts and is ready to give you the finger at a moment’s notice.
In my case this afternoon, the field was just outside the town limits of Scappoose, the critic was a yellow jacket irritated by my efforts to remove it from the back of my neck, and the finger was my own right index.
As the effects of the apitoxin has thus reduced my typing capacity by 25% (I taught myself and thus only employ about four fingers), I will resume my tales of Panamanian adventure tomorrow when the afflicted digit reduces from its present sausage-like appearance and returns to something once again resembling a human finger.
Peace and good bird watching.
