On the porch yesterday morning, I discovered a bumble bee struggling in a half-finished glass of Scotch from John's pre-dinner sup. I poured it out onto the railing, wondering what a drunken bee would look like.
He appeared . . . well, thoughtful and disinclined to make any sudden moves.
Actually, he seemed to be still sipping from the puddle he was in, so I shoved him to dry land where he continued his meditations.
I know that bees have been known to get drunk on fermented fruit--I wonder how Scotch compares. We learned long ago that wine attracts yellow jackets--my sister-in-law inadvertently sipped one and was promptly stung on the lips, which swelled till she looked a bit like Daisy Duck. (Good times, huh, Fay?)
Later in the day when I went to see how the bee was doing, it had evidently staggered off the railing and landed on the step below. It could crawl but wasn't making any attempt to fly. Probably just as well.