RIP Stuart
I’ve had a house fly in my place for about 3 weeks now. He must have gotten in through the back door, probably when I was gardening a few weekends ago. It’s annoying as hell; he buzzes around my ears while I try to fall asleep, he bangs into my forehead while I’m trying to focus, and he even stands with his ganky little fly feet on whatever I’m trying to eat. He’s everywhere! I’ve tried herding him out the door, I’ve tried all the suggested potions and traps that Google has to offer, I even tried negotiating with him, thinking it’s a big enough space that we could just keep our distance and coexist. Alas, he greets me at the door like an excited puppy and follows me around just the same. This uninvited house guest is a real pain in the arse!
But, I love him.
After about two weeks, I gendered him. I looked up ways to tell a fly’s gender, but then recalled that’s a completely arbitrary construct, and since he can’t tell me, just went with my gut. Not long after, I named him Stuart. I stopped trying to get rid of him and started to enjoy his company. Sometimes, he’ll show up on my pant leg and I’ll go “Wassup, Stewie?!” We both really enjoy that. Lately, Stu and I have been having some great hangs. In fact, I feel like I’ve been hitting a real creative stride with him around. I’ve really grown to love that little bastard.
I just fucked up, though. I just looked up the lifespan of the average house fly. The prognosis: 28 days. I did my gardening on May 14th. That was 24 days ago. Fuck. Who knows how old he was when he moved in here. Double fuck. Time is ticking for my guy Stuart, that’s for dang sure. He just banged into the side of my head as I type this and then flew off; I’m going to miss that.
It’s always an especially strange feeling to mourn while still in the presence, ain’t it? I see him flying around, smacking into the fridge, a ghost of himself. The inevitability of death is one thing; we all know it’s unavoidable, yet we just choose to ignore that fact and go about our lives, getting aggravated despite.
Not only is Stuart nearing his exit, but he’s not what he used to be, either. He’s slower. He’s actually way less of a bother now than he used to be, but I know why that’s happening and what it means. He doesn’t dodge my whacks quite like he used to. He was so quick and elusive in his prime, but now the game of cat-and-mouse isn’t even fun anymore. I liked it better when it was near impossible; when he’d duck, swerve, and consistently get the better of me. It’s not a fight I want to win anymore. Now he is old. Aging is a natural part of life, but one of the toughest things to witness.
I do think, however, that the strongest remedy for grief is gratitude. If it’s true, and I am days, if not hours, away from discovering his tiny little lifeless carcass on a rug somewhere, then I’d like to think he lived a good life. In fact, I think it was better than any fly could wish for. Sure, there’s a fairly high likelihood that this is just a standard house fly focused entirely on finding nourishment, and feels unfathomably trapped and scared and has no idea who, or what, I even am, but that’s not the vibe I get. I think Stuart is chilling. I think he got to live a life filled with happiness and excitement and creativity and abundant love, and he knows it. He knows that we shared an awesome moment in existence, together. Consciousness is defined as the ability to have “subjective experiences”, and according to researchers from Macquarie University in Australia, flies do.
Stuart won’t be here soon, so I just said out loud “I love you, Stewie” to a seemingly empty room, like a genuine madman.
Tell the people you love that you love them too.
If you’re reading this, I sure do love you.
RIP Stu
