You will be shocked to learn that as of yesterday afternoon we
have a new addition to our family: a six-legged, bubble-eyed,
two-winged house fly named Kellie.
You will be shocked to learn that as of yesterday afternoon we have a new addition to our family: a six-legged, bubble-eyed, two-winged house fly named Kellie.
Although I’m not sure why my son has started adopting household insects, I have a hunch it’s either a result of the recent onslaught of children’s animated bug movies or the delayed side effects from the painkillers I was administered during his birth.
Like most people, I prefer my bugs outside, but I agreed to go along with keeping Kellie since I thought this was a cute display of his imagination. After all, how long could he be interested in something that can’t fetch or make facial expressions? At least that was what I thought yesterday – before Kellie had her own place at the dinner table, and my son insisted on feeding her all of the expensive cheese.
After the initial attraction cooled off, most of my son’s relationship with Kellie revolved around keeping her from flying away.
We couldn’t open a door or window without my son charging after us to close it. But with all the trouble we had keeping Kellie from going out, I couldn’t understand how three more flies had managed to sneak in.
“Look!” my son cried. “It’s Kellie’s family!”
I stopped letting anyone who wasn’t a close family member into the house because I had a feeling when I explained to them that my house was full of flies because, “I can’t figure out which one is my son’s new pet, Kellie,” they’d sign me up for a 12-step program at the nearest rehab center. All I could do was (a) hope the files would eventually go away (b) try to figure out which one was Kellie or (c) swat them all and hope I could afford the bills for my son’s years in therapy.
I finally decided to call the only people I knew would understand: my friends with children. As I suspected would happen, my best friend Shirley told me about the time her daughter put her ladybug collection in the crisper to eat the good lettuce because, “They looked hungry.” And my friend Judy assured me that her son had once brought home a lizard named Steve and stored him under the tissue paper in one of her shoeboxes – with her good pumps still in it.
I knew they were just trying to cheer me up. But despite their help I had a hunch, and I may be wrong about this, that we are the only family in the world to be on a first name basis with a fly.
“Maybe we can teach it a trick and get it a guest spot on David Letterman,” my husband suggested.
“Very funny,” I said. But I wasn’t really worried. According to one of the shows on the Animal Planet channel, flies have a life span of around two days. And, sure enough, the next morning all of four of them were lying on the windowsill with their little feet up in the air.
Although I was relieved, I was concerned how my son was going to take the death of his first pet. What if he took it hard? What if handling it incorrectly led to deep psychological problems in the future? What if, for goshsakes, he wanted a funeral?
“Kellie was a good pet,” I said gently. “And I know you’ll miss her.”
“Yeah,” my son nodded. “But that’s OK, Mom.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small garden snail. “I still have Lisa.”
Good-bye, Kellie. Rest in peace.
