Fling wide the door! Step through, and hold it open in an act of chivalry. Chivalry is not dead. It lives! It lives in the egresses of my humble home, where the menfolk see fit to invite in poopy-foot flies until the cows come home. Thank goodness we don't have cows.
If I had my druthers, my family would be required to enter our abode like Indiana Jones creeping through the Temple of Doom. Like Tom Cruise trying to complete an impossible mission. Like Maxwell Smart striding though closing doors at CONTROL headquarters. Or to exit like Maria slipping out the front door of the von Trapp mansion during a grand party.
Flies have no business in my house. There's no poop to crawl on. That's their job, you know. To crawl on poop. Don't tell me how flies like decomposing critter carcasses just as well. Nope. I know what they're up to. They're poop-crawlers. That's what they live for. That's how they live. Sure, every now and then you hear of them laying their eggs in decomposing critter carcasses. They're just using them as surrogates because they can't find enough poop to crawl in. Poop, poop, poop. That's their mantra.
I show no mercy when they come poopy-footing around my kitchen. I grab the old-fashioned baby-blue flyswatter that hangs from a metal hook on the cutting block. "Feast your compound eyes on THIS!" I hiss. In my mind. Out loud might make my chivalrous menfolk look at me askance. The poopy-footed guest today was invited by The Pony after our trip to town. "Close that door! What are you trying to do, let in flies?"
"I'm going back to the car for my phone. I was holding the door for you. Look out. This one's trying to get in. Too late."
Yes. Too late. For that poop-crawler. I grabbed my swatter. The Pony had returned. "I just saw him. Where did he go?"
"Um. Right there. On YOUR FOOT!" Huh. Like he thought I could feel a fly on the instep of my white leather New Balance. Some reverse princess detecting a pea.
"Haha! He got away!"
"Not for long. Where'd he go?"
"Right here. On the floor."
"He's not very smart."
"Let ME get him." I handed over the swatter while I busied myself getting my 44 oz. Diet Coke ready for transport to my dark basement lair. "Oops! Missed." I took back my swatter and sent The Pony packing my drinks downstairs. That poop-crawler landed on a metal tray on my almond stove-top. I swung without mercy. Like a clean-up hitter going for the left field fence. Some might term my at-bat as a foul. The poop-crawler tried to take off. Too late. He must have been suffering from multiple macular degeneration. I struck him a glancing blow, which caused him to fly in a slow spiral into the drip pan of my front burner. Don't think I was giving up.
I pulled up the metal coil and dipped the edge of the flyswatter under the poop-crawler. He walked in a circle like a puppy chasing its tail. Only much smaller, and not cute. I spun to the sink, and dumped him in. Turned on the water full blast. Grabbed the sprayer for good measure. That's one poop-crawler that's not coming back.
Later, I told The Pony, "I got him! I smacked him on the stove, and he flew into the burner, and I scooped him out and washed him down the sink."
"I know. I heard the death scream." I'm not sure if he's talking about one from the poop-crawler, or from me. "I would have turned on the burner and roasted him to ashes."
So much for chivalry.