System critical
On this warm June morning, I learn an important lesson about the world. I’m eleven weeks old, my name is Max, and I’m a Golden Retriever puppy. As I toddle through the garden, still dewy from morning sleep and full of curiosity about everything new, a deep, vibrating hum reaches my ears. The sound is unlike anything I’ve heard before - neither the gentle whir of the air conditioning nor the familiar rumble of the lawn mower.
Above me hovers something fascinating: A bumblebee, stocky and fuzzy, yellow-black striped like a tiny tiger of the skies. Her body seems far too heavy for the delicate, translucent wings that beat at lightning speed. With an audible sigh, she lands heavily on one of the large sunflowers.
“Are you a toy?” I ask curiously, wagging my fluffy tail.
“Toy?” The bumblebee snorts audibly through her tiny nostrils.
“Young sir, I suppose I should introduce myself properly first. My name is Herbert Bronkowski, worker bee of the Bombus terrestris family, Colony 7, North Garden Sector. I’m 23 days old and active during flower season. And you are?”
I sit in my best sitting position and tilt my head. “I’m Max! Just Max. I live here in the house with my family. This is my first real summer!” I wag my tail proudly. “Do you take real breaks? Like my family does at work?”
Herbert wipes his forehead with a front leg. “Five minutes at most, if at all. I’ve been on my wings since five in the morning. Look at this.” He points proudly but exhaustedly to the plump yellow sacs on his hind legs. “This is already flower 37 for today, and I have 23 more before lunch break. 47 flowers visited, and my pollen baskets are about to burst. Every flight a precision landing, every flower a small miracle of nature.”
“I work too,” I explain seriously. “This morning I learned not to pee on the carpet. And yesterday I got to practice new commands for a whole hour.”
Herbert stares at me with his large compound eyes in disbelief. Each eye consists of hundreds of individual eyes that appear to me like tiny kaleidoscopes. “You sleep after breakfast, don’t you?”
“Of course! At home they say puppies need 18 hours of sleep a day. And after lunch I take a nap too, and in the afternoon…”
“I’VE BEEN ON MY WINGS NON-STOP SINCE FIVE IN THE MORNING!” Herbert vibrates with indignation, and pollen showers from his body like golden dust. “14 hours daily, in any weather. If I don’t manage 60 flowers per day, if my quota isn’t right, then I endanger the entire ecosystem. Do you understand? Without us bumblebees, no pollination; without pollination, no seeds; without seeds, no new plants; without plants, no food for other animals. We are the invisible foundation of life. System critical!”
I listen, fascinated. “What do you get for it? My family gets money for their work.”
Herbert laughs bitterly, a dry buzz. “Money? The honor of keeping the system running - that’s our wage. While house pets play and sleep all day, we literally work our wings to the bone. Look at them!” He spreads his wings - they’re frayed at the edges, translucent like parchment, crossed with fine tears, the traces of countless flight hours.
“But that’s not fair!” I protest, and my puppy instinct for justice awakens.
“Unfair?” Herbert crawls methodically deeper into the sunflower, his proboscis disappearing completely into the flower head. “We fly at temperatures of just two degrees Celsius, when bees still lie rigid in their hives. Our bodies can generate heat through muscle shivering - a biological heater. We pollinate through special vibrations at a frequency of 400 Hertz. Tomatoes, blueberries, pumpkins - only we can pollinate those, no other insects can do it. Our vibration releases pollen from the anthers like a tiny jackhammer.”
Herbert demonstrates his technique, his whole body vibrates intensely, and I watch fascinated as pollen streams from the flower like golden rain. “But do we get bumblebee hotels for this? Media attention? Protection programs? No. Everyone only talks about the bees. ‘Save the bees!’ they cry. Yet we’re just as important, sometimes even more important.”
I watch the precise movements, fascinated. “Then why do you do it? With so little recognition?”
Herbert pauses for a moment, his antennae twitching thoughtfully. “Because someone has to do it, Max. Because without us, biodiversity collapses. Every third flower out there depends on us. In a single summer, a bumblebee colony visits over a million flowers. A million! That’s the foundation for all life here.” He nervously cleans his antennae. “It’s my function in the great system of nature. My mother was already a worker, my grandmother, my great-grandmother. We’ve been keeping the ecosystem running for millions of years.”
A voice calls from the house: “Max! Lunch!”
My stomach growls immediately, but for the first time in my short life, I hesitate. “Herbert, do you want to come along? There’s surely enough for both of us at home.”
Herbert shakes his head, but his voice becomes a touch warmer. “No time, little one. Still 22 flowers until break. But…” He hums quieter, almost conspiratorially. “Thanks for asking.”
The bumblebee smiles despite her fatigue. “Take good care of yourself, Max. You have a good heart. And don’t forget who ensures every day that your garden blooms and thrives.”
With these words, Herbert flies away, cumbersome but purposeful with his valuable cargo. I count along: flower 52, 53, 54… Until Herbert disappears behind the large hedge, still working, still system critical.
Later, I decide, I’ll tell my family everything - about Herbert and his 14-hour days, about the invisible work of bumblebees, and about how some heroes are fuzzy and small and never get a medal.