For eleven months of the year, you'd be hard-pressed to find a fly in my house. The population of these pesky insects waxes and wanes down in the barn always, but there they feed the friendly spiders so it's no big deal. And then we come to sometime between September and October and all I can liken it to is the Amityville Horror (you'd have to have seen the movie to understand). On a yearly basis, flies come from nowhere and then they're everywhere. Taking a nap is an exercise in futility as one of the buggers crawls repeatedly on your sleeping face. One can't get in or out the screen door fast enough to keep them out of the house. Flyswatters that are normally kept in a closet are brought out and placed in strategic locations close to hand. "Take that!," and I smash them right and left for a month.
Ralph and Celeste are in seventh heaven. If I didn't know the cause, I'd think the cats had suddenly lost their minds or were on some really good hallucinogenics. Both cats stalk unseen prey. They bat at the air. They leap and twirl in the middle of the room. They make short dashes here and there. They've developed a fascination for the screens at doors and windows. Ralph brrrp-brrrps as he races around corners. They think I've brought flies in just for them and they're having such a good time. I may be the only one pleased when fly season is over and it can't come soon enough for me. Ralph and Celeste will have to go back to playing with stuffed toys. Sorry, kids.