A Fly Named Fluffy

There is a fly who is a genius living in my family room.

He's not a particularly handsome fly. Unable to rely on his looks, he has had to develop some serious survival skills as well as a good personality in order to have made it this far.

Making a home for himself on the lamp on my desk, he has weathered all attempts to destroy him including flailing, swatting, sneaking up upon, hostile aerosol attacks as well as an assortment of jarring episodes designed to displace him.

How do I know it's been the same fly all week?

I just do.

We've developed a rapport and I can tell it's still him.

He knows when to lay low and, by cleverly timing his reappearance after I'm sure I've gotten rid of him, has exhibited the ability to combine the elements of both irony and surprise. He is a fly to be admired.

Seth has suggested fly paper but, I feel, he has earned a more dignified demise....if I ever catch him.

And besides, I am afraid of fly paper.

Years ago, having left an unairconditioned house during a very hot spell for a vacation, something "hatched" in our absence. We returned to find about 65 billion flies in the house.

My mother, who lived with us, had fled to her room with several days worth of food and water, jamming socks into the crack under her door and leaving a note on the kitchen table which simply said, "Help me."

The boys were little and we shoved them in with Grandma and spent the next several hours killing flies, buying rolls of fly paper the following morning to hang all over the house to ensnare the ones we'd missed.

Highly effective as well as freakishly sticky, it caught them by the dozens as I warned the boys in an endless shrill loop to stay away from it, stay away from it, stay away from it...only to walk into it myself, face first.

Not only did I have dead flies in my mouth, nose and eyes but I actually had to cut some of my hair off to free myself. The kids, of course, found it very ironic after my many warnings but I don't think the word "irony" was used. I seem to recall lots of pointing and laughing from them and a good bit of swearing....and, ultimately, crying, from me.

So, no fly paper.

Fluffy, at the piano.

I may just leave this guy alone. He isn't really bad company at all and has exhibited such a will to live that I may just stop harassing him.

I already have a cat named Buzzy which is a perfect name for a fly so I will just have to call him Fluffy.