A particularly large fly landed on the table where I was eating lunch. I don’t know why it caught my attention. Perhaps it was the fly’s size, which was less “bug” and more “bird.” I watched the fly clean its eyes and then its wings. I thought, “That fly cleans itself just like my cat.” Then my brain cut to the most alarming part of that sentence: “That fly cleans itself.”
Flies, carriers of almost every horrific disease known to mankind, clean themselves. What horror must be on that fly to cause its insect brain to say, “Ugh, get that off of me”? It’s got to be worse than the Plague, that’s all I know. And yet, I don’t want to know. I don’t want to know what a fly deems too dirty. Especially not while I’m eating.