The Benevolent Fly Catcher

I've found that I'm spending an awfully large amount of time attempting to capture flies. I wouldn't go as far as saying my house is infested, I wouldn't even say that I have "a fly problem." There are three of them. Far as I know. I guess one of the main issues is the fact that I don't want to kill them. I have no problem with these flies being alive, you see, I'd just prefer them to be alive somewhere else. Strangely, I would not mind one bit if my cats saw it fit to kill the buggers, circle of life and everything, but they're pretty busy sleeping in the sun all day, occasionally taking a lazy swat whenever one of those tiny black dots chances to drift toward their paws...

So its up to me. I came to my non-violence stance by way of committing a grisly murder. I had been cleaning some mysterious gunk off my kitchen counter with Windex and some environmentally-friendly-stiff-as-a-board-not-particularly-absorbent paper towels, when a fly buzzed so close to my ear I began wondering what the LAPD helicopter was doing in my living room. It landed on the window directly in front of me, basically saying, " 'Scuse me, if it wouldn't be too much trouble, if you don't mind, that is, would you please MURDER ME?" I was more than happy to oblige. I have to admit that some kind of killer instinct took over, a remnant of my mammoth hunting days in some previous incarnation. Before I realized what I was doing, the Windex bottle was squirting bubbly streams of liquid on the fly. My fingers pulsed on the trigger. I was an assassin with no fear of repercussion, karmically or otherwise. The plague of conscience was creeping up on me, but if Jiminy Cricket showed up then I probably would have capped him too just to have one less witness. I picked the poisoned, paralysed fly off the window with another paper towel, went outside and deposited the carcass in the dumpster behind my building (which I think may be a breeding ground for flies).

I have since killed only one more, attempting to trap him in an empty can of black beans and set him free outside, I instead crushed the poor bastard with the side of the tin. I've caught and released two, they seemed happy to be back in the wide world, I felt good for giving them the chance. The other flies are wily. They seem to fear freedom. Perhaps my home is all they've ever known. Maybe they even love this place and feel that it is theirs. Regardless, they elude my bean can, and with each buzz that wakes me in strange, purple hours of the morning, my fingers itch once again for the trigger.