To bee or not to bee

I am a great one for suffering in silence. Whether I'm sporting a horseshoe bruise on my calf, a fiery sunburn framing my face or a painful puncture wound in the soft fleshy part of my foot, you will rarely hear a whimper out of me.  Stoic and strong.  Uncomplaining.  Little did I know that I had role-modeled that behavior to be emulated by those around me.

Brad and I were sitting on our sidewalk steps, enjoying the afternoon sun when we noticed that Chlo was no longer frolicking happily among the tall dandelion stalks.  She likes to pretend that she's slaloming between the slender stems.  Our little dachshund sat and looked at us plaintively with one tiny paw held up in supplication.  Furry paw problems are not unusual in our house.  Doggie booties are purchased every winter and then promptly discarded by Chlo as we attempt to avoid a rather serious case of "cold feet." Stickers and stones often become lodged within the recesses of Chlo's paws.  Recently, Chlo got herself into a rather sticky situation when she was involved in the investigation of pine tree.  We cut out as much sap as possible but Chlo looked like she was walking on tiptoe for days.  On the plus side, we'd invented the first organic doggie deodorizer. She smelled like Christmas!

Chlo isn't one to complain so Brad went over to investigate.  The initial inspection revealed nothing but it was clear that Chlo was in distress. Comfortable quoting both the Bible and Shakespeare, Chlo's patient acceptance and unshakable trust in us seemed to say, "O bee...where is thy sting?"  We tag-teamed her and a meticulous search led us to a minuscule protrusion in one of her pads.    Like Androcles and the Lion, the "thorn," in the guise of a bee stinger, was swiftly removed.  Proportionally, little Chlo being stung by a bee is the same as us being terrorized by a Pterodactyl-sized prehistoric bug.  She was a trooper; laying quietly in her little laundry basket of blankets, her petite paw quivering.  She rallied somewhat when I was eating some chicken.  And as I type this, Chlo is nestled on my arm, determined to soldier on.  To answer the age-old question of "to bee or not to bee," Chlo respectfully submits that she would much rather "not to bee."