Flies.
Every year, our house is attacked by angry hordes of flies. The first year it happened, I assumed I had left trash that attracted them. Then I wondered if something had died in our walls. There was no smell, but you never know.
One year we went on vacation. I had cleaned the house, taken out all trash, and when we got home -
Flies.
I officially have no idea why they show up. I am speaking of HORDES, as in mass quantities of the evil black six-legged icky-poop-eaters. They amass around the windows in our kitchen, family room, and living room. Hundreds of them.
Last evening, I came home from working at the ranch and killed flies. I sprayed, swatted, and swept, then started it all again. I worked for over an hour before I stopped to fix dinner.
When I got up the next morning, I sprayed, swatted, and swept more. In between my coffee, I killed flies. In between writing, I killed flies. In between eating, I killed flies.
By mid-morning, I began to notice that the spray didn't always kill them. Sometimes they laid, in a coma-like state, until I swatted one of their friends, and then they'd take off. It was like having zombie flies. I told Marcus that we had zombie flies and the only way to kill them was to wrap them in a paper towel and feel their bodies pop.
"You're morbid, Mom," he said.
By mid-afternoon, I was attuned to every buzzing noise, every slight thunk of a fly body hitting a window. I also began to wonder if I was just imagining things, like a drunk with DTs.
It is now 6:30 p.m. and I am still on the hunt. I am relentless in my pursuit. None will survive. If I let even one live, they will lay eggs and I will have to do this all over again.
Trust me, I shall be victorious. Until next year...
