Why I Don’t Kill Flies
Disclaimer: Sorry this has nothing to do with Germany!
„Stop, don’t kill it!,” I yelled as our office intern suddenly leaped up, waving a rolled up magazine to swat at a fly, which was frantically buzzing around the room. “I thought you were a Christian?,” I mumbled, trying to keep calm as I rose from my seat at the conference table.
He froze, his hand hovering midair. He stared at me: short black hair, five feet of quivering anger, encased in a thin Asian frame. “Oh, I forgot you were a Buddhist,” he replied, sarcasm clouding his voice.
OK, diplomacy wasn’t always my strong point. So touché to him, I thought. In fact, many people believe my religion is why I often plead with them to spare the lives of insects. But that’s not the real reason.
It all started when I was about four years old. I know I had to be that age, because my mother had not yet learned to drive. She started taking driving lessons later, after the accident. That’s why we had to walk down the steep, weed-covered hill to get to the neighborhood Mayfair supermarket.
Mom needed to get some vegetables for dinner, so I was following her around, trying to see over the counters. That’s when the fly flew to me, landing on the hand I had just stretched out to feel a big red apple. But this was more interesting! I drew my hand closer, to get a better look. With the fly only inches from my face, I could see it calmly rubbing together it’s two hind legs. After a few seconds it flew off, circled my head a few times, then landed on my arm.
“Sylvie, hurry up,” called mom, apparently finished with her shopping.
“Gotta go, fly,” I whispered to my new friend, expecting him to fly off again. But he didn’t.
As we walked to the checkout counter, my fly stayed with me. Occasionally he flew away, but then returned after a few seconds, settling on my arm, my hand, or my head.
When we exited the store, I was sure he would take the chance to take flight. But he didn’t. On the long trip back home, walking first one block, then a second and a third – up the trail on the hillside. He stayed right by me, seemingly uninterested in the weeds or flowers we passed along the way.
When we got back inside our house, my fly was still with me. During the walk, I was too amazed to tell my mother about my newfound friend. But when we got home, I excitedly told her that he had followed me all the way from the fruit section, up the hill, and into the house.
“It’s a different fly,” she replied dismissively, focused on unpacking the groceries and storing them in the refrigerator.
“No he’s the same one, I know it! And I need a box. He needs a home!”
When my mother realized I was serious, she stopped her work and reached into the kitchen drawer next to the sink. That’s where dad kept some small cardboard boxes filled with various screws for his repair projects. She emptied out one of the larger ones, poked a few holes into it with a shish-kebab skewer, and handed it to me.
I ran out the back door to the patio and put the box on the floor, where I opened it partway. Sitting down, I coaxed the fly onto my finger, to show it where it’s new home was. He seemed to hesitate only for a second before hopping off and settling into the box. Gently, I closed it, wondering how long he could live like that. After all, I thought, flies couldn’t be used to living in a box. And I wanted to show him to my dad when he got home from work.
But after a few hours, guilt got the better of me. I couldn’t keep my fly stuck in a box when he had only known freedom! So I grabbed his home, walked out into the backyard, opened the box and shook it, forcing him to leave.
“Goodbye fly,” I whispered, as my fly took off into the blue sky. Perhaps realizing it the time was right, he soared off and did not return to me again.
To this day, I have a special relationship with flies. When they find their way into a room I’m in – or even outside where there are no walls – they come to me when I call them. “Here fly fly fly! Come here!” I call.
They settle on my arm and don’t leave even when I try to shake them off. I can’t explain it, except to imagine that I might have been a fly in a former life. Or that they somehow sense a special bond with me even though I am a human.
And that is why I do not kill flies.
P.S. – Do not start with the ‘use deodorant’ jokes…
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