I tiptoe forward and see that the giant nest is attached to a branch that’s three inches in diameter. Slicing it off would be like trying to hack through the barrel of a baseball bat. There’s no way, Gisco.

It’s the only way! If I had fingers I’d do it. But I don’t. You’re the one who is anatomically best suited to this battle. All for one and one for all—get to it!

The shrill whine from the nest rises in volume. A few wasps fly out of a hole at the bottom. I see their bright red stingers, razor sharp and nearly an inch long. There’s no doubt that they know we’re here. I take a deep breath and then step forward. Okay, Gisco, I’ll try it your way.

That’s the spirit. There’s really nothing to be afraid of, the dog assures me, practically burrowing into the gondola’s wicker wall to get as far as possible from the enormous insects, who have taken up what sounds like an Indian war cry inside their nest. I have the strong sense that any second the swarm is going to attack in full force.

I feel a surge of adrenaline. Gisco’s right—hacking off the branch is our only chance. The boy seems to understand and hands over his machete.

I take it in my hands and creep closer.

Gisco, if I don’t cut through the branch in one swipe, they’ll swarm over us in a heartbeat.

You can do it, Jack. You’re a natural machete swinger if I’ve ever seen one. I have the utmost confidence in you. I note that even while he’s encouraging me, the crafty dog has one foot over the edge of the gondola, preparing for a hasty evacuation if necessary.

I grip the machete with both hands, raise it, take a final step forward, and bring the blade down with full force on the branch. There’s a loud CRACK as sharp steel bites into wet wood. The loud buzz rises to a furious crescendo, but by the time the wasps know what hit them their nest is in free fall, heading for the distant swamp.

Gisco steps forward, all smiles. Well done, Jack. After all, there’s no reason to be afraid of a few overgrown backyard pests. Put it there. Shake my paw.

But before I can accept the dog’s hearty congratulations, a tiger springs into our gondola from a nearby branch and looks at us with anticipatory relish, as if someone just rang a rain forest dinner gong.

The boy with the braid takes one terrified look at the tiger and jumps onto my back, wrapping his arms and legs around me. I decide that it’s time to remind my canine companion of his pedigree.