It flew in two days ago and taunts me for hours. I am a young dog. I find this very amusing, high entertainment and a reason to dash across the hardwood floors snapping at its buzzing form. It is a fly.
My humans are not so pleased and are blaming me for this intrusion into their otherwise completely boring existence. They sit. They stare at that huge screen watching reruns of Judge Judy. He swears at the Red Sox. She sighs over Masterpiece Theater. All in all, I’d say the fly has added some interest to their dull lives.
They blame me, of course. It is so easy to blame the voiceless innocents. They blame me because they have to open the door and let me into the yard before something very unfortunate for us all happens on Her oriental carpets. And so each time the door opens, maybe a fly or two swoop in – WHAT – this should be my fault? I think not.
The days go by as He attempts to knock the sense out of the fly with a rolled up newspaper and She, well, She simply flaps her hand around complaining while covering up the food on the counter with dish towels. Silly human. Doesn’t She know that the fly has hopped all over that towel before She got out of bed this morning? Flies do not sleep.
I made my best effort today to rid them of their tormentor. I chased it back and forth from dining room to kitchen to living room to office and back again. That sucker is fast. I am undaunted. I can do this all day. Since stealth is not in my DNA, speed is my tool. The next time the fly lands on my head, it’s over for the big-eyed fool.
Here He comes again with His weapon in hand. I watch. This is better than barking at the school bus. Whacking away as the fly jets off from one landing pad to another, He swings and misses like his beloved Sox. He is saying something very loudly, but I can’t quiet make out the words. Oh wait, I know those words. He uses them when he drops something on the floor and then can’t find it, or when the phone rings and someone is telling him the IRS is investigating his finances, or when another driver does something he doesn’t agree with. Oh yes, I know what He is calling that fly. I won’t repeat it here.
She is an easy target for the fly. There She is now, sitting on her little divan, busily tapping away on her laptop, writing God knows what about whom but she seems content until, uh oh, the fly tried to land on her earlobe. If there were Fly Olympics, that one would have received a 10 for level of difficulty. Bravo!
But it is all very exhausting. Those brilliant bursts of energy spent chasing a mouche sap my strength. Napping is required for this chien.
By the way, please forgive that bit of French. She has been watching videos about a French cat who is also some sort of philosopher, give me strength, so I’ve been picking up a little of the language. Silly woman. Those videos aren’t even French; they come from Canada – sacré bleu!
She’s left the door open again, not realizing I’ve returned from my perimeter check of the garden. Several more flies have entered the inner sanctum. There will be hell to pay. But when I tried to get Her attention, the response was “GO LAY DOWN.” OK, suit yourself lady.
It is sad to note that even if I fail to swallow a few flies, the flies will die anyway. First and probably foremost, there are the spiders. No matter how much sweeping and dusting goes on around here, the spiders inhabit obscure corners with their evil webs of doom. Ever watched a fly struggling to free itself from those nets – I agree it isn’t pretty.
And then there is the simple truth that a fly’s lifespan is very short, about 28 days total. Who am I to interfere with their short furious attempts at procreation and limited survival? I could almost cry, but I won’t because their infernal buzzing is a torment. There it is done. I just swallowed one.
But wait … what is She complaining about now? He is saying “…but honey, they are impossible to find…” Oh no, it is a cricket. “Merde!”
By Marilou Newell