Let the Fly Live

It had been circling for a while.

Not with purpose. Not with grace. Just that nervous, aimless energy that flies always carry.

I felt it first on the inside of my bare arm. Then on my ear.

A sudden landing. A quick, gross tickle. Then gone again.

I tried to ignore it.

But it kept coming back.

Tap. Buzz. Buzz. Tap.

Off the glass. Onto the fridge. Past my head. Back to the window.

Tap. Buzz. Buzz. Tap.

I stood there for a moment, holding a spatula in one hand and the last of my patience in the other.

And then I snapped.

"That's it."

I grabbed the swatter and went full gladiator.

Swung high. Swung low. Missed by a mile.

Looked ridiculous.

And then I noticed Bear.

He wasn’t scared.

He wasn’t startled.

He was disappointed.

Big brown eyes. Slow blink.

A long, heavy sigh like the spirit had just left the room.

Then he stood up, slow and heavy,

and padded down the hallway like he’d seen too much.

Didn’t make a scene.

Didn’t bark or whine.

Just left. Like he didn’t want to be part of whatever energy I had just invited in.

At first, I thought it was trauma.

He’s a rescue. Maybe someone had used a swatter before in a way that hurt.

But no.

It wasn’t fear.

Bear wasn’t afraid of the swatter.

He was sad I thought I needed it,

and maybe a little disappointed.

Like he thought I was a better person than that.

Then I made it worse. Or better. Depends on who you ask and how much they hate flies.

I was at the hardware store, and there it was.

The Bug-A-Salt.

A plastic rifle that shoots salt at insects.

Absurd. Brilliant. I had to have it.

I stood there like Ralphie from A Christmas Story, all wide-eyed and full of purpose,

except there was no one around to tell me I’d shoot my eye out.

Sometimes I should probably have supervision too.

I brought it home like a kid with a new toy. Loaded it up. Took my stance.

Bear just watched.

Watched me load it.

Watched me raise it.

Watched me take aim at a tiny blur on the counter.

Then he sighed again.

A deeper one this time.

And walked out of the room without a sound.

And in that sigh of his, I swear I could hear him saying...

Come on, man.

It’s not about the fly.

Okay, maybe a little.

I don’t love watching you go full commando over something that weighs less than a breath.

But it’s not just that.

It’s what it says about you.

Every little buzz becomes a battle.

You hear one thing you don’t like, and you’re up swinging.

Every small irritation, every petty offense,

you chase it like it matters.

And you don’t need to.

You’re bigger than that.

Literally, sure. But also in the ways that count.

I notice things too.

The squirrel in the backyard.

The mail truck.

The commercials with fake doorbells.

And the little twerps running around the house like idiots when I’m trying to sleep.

You know what I do?

I breathe.

I turn over.

I find a softer spot and let it go.

You could try that.

Not everything needs a reaction.

Not every buzz is an attack.

Sometimes the strongest move is to do nothing at all.

Let the fly live.

Save your strength for what matters.

I still use it.

Just not when Bear’s watching.

When he’s around, I pause.

Because his presence reminds me,

not every small thing is worth my big reaction.

The fly is just a fly.

But the way I jumped to swat it?

That’s the part I had to sit with.

Because the truth is, the fly didn’t steal my peace.

I gave it away.

Let the fly live.

Let the moment pass.

Let the little things go.

Did you hear what I said?

Let the little things go.