29 August 2020

Why Am I So Important In The Life of a Fly?

What is with flies? Why are they so social? Plenty of other bugs want nothing to do with us. But somehow flies just have to be involved with everything we are doing. 

Do they think they are being loyal? Are they snuggling up to me as they land on my arm? Are they whispering sweet nothings in my ear? Are they wanting to share a plethora of food items with me that they have gathered throughout the day? Why am I so important in the life of a fly? 

We have food everywhere. My kids have not thrown any of their wrappers away in the trash this year. Surely these flies can find something else besides me to bother.

It's like the taste of dead human skin cells is a delicacy that they cannot resist. "I gotta have it! I gotta have it!"

I was told many years ago by my cousin that we kill flies because they land on and eat poop. While that is a pretty good reason, I think the main one is that they just bug us. I don't know why we are so upset about it. We love dogs... And I am sure the flies wash their hands right after they are done. It's more than you can say for the dog.

Flies are pretty quick. I can tell when I go to swat them that they are totally one step ahead of me. Or three steps ahead of me. I never had a chance. Their senses are so keen. Like Fly Sense instead of Spidey Sense. 

But we hate flies. No other bug has a swatter named after it. Bee swatter. Nope. Spider swatter. Uh uh. Fly swatter. We have a special place in our home for it. Who invented the fly swatter? That person should have a statue.

Oh and that feeling of their little feet on our skin. It is so unsettling. It gives me anxiety just thinking about it. Then they buzz by my ear. Sit there and try to relax thinking of that idea.

The fly is really quite an amazing creature. It seems like they were created just to completely throw us off. I am sitting here typing on my computer and a fly decides she wants to start an argument. And I start flailing my arms and going bonkers. I know she is laughing. Pointing her little fly fingers at me. You know. The fingers she just washed after landing in the poop in the yard.