We discovered a fly in our house. It is March. We live in North Dakota. It is very solidly winter here. On Sunday we had rain, thunder, and lightning. Yesterday it snowed all day. This is no hospitable habitat for a fly.
I found him one day after work when I went to open the patio door so Melvin could go out to smell the dead cat grass and drink the water out of the bottom of the planter that once held the basil I hoped to grow. I have a black thumb.
I heard the fly buzzing around at the bottom of the patio door. Melvin heard him, too, and proceeded to eat him. I was disgusted, but that’s the circle of life. Eat or be eaten.
He reemerged (the fly, not my cat) on my bedroom window days later.
I also found a spider in my mixing bowl last week. I tried to smother it with a paper towel, and it jumped away. As I could not find it again, I assumed it had crawled onto my person. I considered burning my clothes and my apartment and moving to Santa Fe, naked and without any kitchen supplies.
On Sunday, I noticed that the fly and the ladybug (thought to be long dead) were resting in the lampshade. I began to sing the song about the lady who swallowed a fly and a spider that wriggled and jiggled and tickled inside her. I don’t know why she swallowed a fly. Perhaps she’ll die.
I’m old. I have a spider and a fly and a ladybug and a cat. What more do I need to complete my family? A horse, of course.