Flies are hated at our house. No, I mean ha-ted. Dan calls them "flying pieces of crap," because you are what you eat. Dan can go from happy and content to angry and vengeful in seconds as soon as he sees one. And of course, the flies scatter at the exact moment they see the fly swatter. You didn't know flies had intelligence, did you? A creature who sits on poop and feasts has enough intellect to scram when they see plastic mesh attached to wire. I don't get it.
So here we are in the middle of canning the abundance our garden has produced when the little fruit flies appear. How do they materialize out of thin air? They multiply like, well, like flies. Maybe our tomatoes have been harboring these fugitives, who only come out when they outnumber the humans 400 to 1. Safety in numbers, you know. I have been scrambling to get the kitchen clean and destroy the source for which these little nasty flies live for. And I'm always afraid one will get close enough to my nostrils that when I sniff, well, you get the picture.
So I'm doubly motivated to see the poop fliers gone.
Annihilated.
Vanquished.
Demolished.
Obliterated.
Back to work.
My fly swatter calls.
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