During the recent heat wave our dog Ivy got a little lazy. Instead of going to the back of our yard to do her business, she began to do it just outside our backdoor. I’m usually pretty good about picking up after her right away, but I missed one the other day.
You know what happens to unattended piles. They bring unwelcome guests; lots and lots of flies.
Unfortunately, this particular pile was right by our door, so when somebody opened the back door, the flies quickly found a new home inside our house.
If you’ve never been in a “house of flies” before, it’s not just disgusting and annoying–it’s like a horror movie. Those little buggers buzz in and out, with speed and deception. Now you see ‘em, now you don’t. It’s like they are begging for you to attack, and each kill is a challenge.
But here’s something I didn’t know about my dainty wife Bridget, and I suspect the flies didn’t know it either: Bridget has a white-hot, temple-throbbing hatred of flies.
When they started buzzing around us, Bridget transformed into a cold blooded killing machine.
She grabbed that fly swatter and immediately went to work. First she turned off all the lights inside the house except for one, luring the flies to their eventual graves. Then she calmly waited for each of them to land in her kill zone. When they landed, THWAP!
“Who’s buzzing now?” she screamed over that first carcass.
She was screaming and thwapping, laughing and taunting, hunting and killing with a blood lust that frankly scared me a little bit.
“Oh the ol’ fly away when I approach technique, eh?” she said to an unfortunate victim that looked like he was about escape. “I DON’T THINK SO!” (Thwap)
Right before my eyes, my petite flower was turning into Rambo. When she thought they were all dead, inevitably another one would emerge, and Bridget would pounce. “Take THAT!” (Thwap)
Then another. “Shoo fly, don’t BOTHER ME!” (Thwap)
She was grunting like Monica Seles serving an ace with each overhand thwap.
Finally, we were down to one elusive fly. The boys and I were watching television in the basement, and Bridget appeared to be watching too, but her eyes were not on the tube. They were on the lookout for the “Last of the Flyhicans”.
This fly was elusive and crafty. It buzzed in our vicinity, and Bridget pounced. THWACK. Missed him. The fly flew up the stairs, but Bridget would not be denied. She stormed after him with flyswatter in hand. “Don’t you run away from me, you coward!”
I didn’t see what happened next, but I heard a loud crash followed by an evil laugh.
“Rick, come up here, you have to see this.”
She was standing in the kitchen, weapon in hand, cackling at the site in front of her. The fly was dangling from the side of the light, clinging to his last moments of life. She had incapacitated him, but hadn’t yet finished him off. She waited until I witnessed her dangling prey, before completing her mission with one last THWACK.
I used to joke that nobody would dare mess with us because we have a pit bull and she doesn’t take too kindly to uninvited guests. During Bridget’s fly rampage, that pit bull was hiding in her crate.
Even a pit bull knows better than to mess with the Lady of the Flies.