Megan and I just finished binge watching the current season of The Walking Dead. The final episodes in Alexandria are some of the series’ best. While watching, I recalled a rather gross event from my childhood involving a little critter that would make a zombie uprising damn near impossible.
When I was about 12 years, my beloved cat Fluffy went missing. We hadn’t seen her in about 4 days, and while I was shooting hoops with my pal Jeremy, we heard some sad mewing coming from my garage. The calls was coming from Fluffy who was hiding behind a tattered old sofa. The timbre of her cries made it quite clear that something was wrong. I was too scared to pull her out from her make-shift cave, but brave Jeremy was up for the challenge.
As he was carefully extracting her from her hiding spot he suddenly shouted. “Ahk! Maggots!”, or something like that. It turns out that some resourceful house fly laid her eggs in a scab on Fluffy’s back, and the fly’s offspring were eating poor Fluffy alive. It was absolutely traumatizing for all involved: Jeremy, my sister Michelle, my father who was quickly summoned by Michelle, myself, and of course poor Fluffy. We wrapped her in a blanket, rushed her to the vet, and were sadly informed that the best we could do for Fluffy was to end her suffering. It was a lot tougher than watching an episode of The Walking Dead.
House flies and their offspring are relentless. They are so common, that they are used in forensics to determine the time of death when a body is discovered in the wild. They start consuming an organism as soon as it dies, and in some cases, like poor Fluffy’s, they get started even sooner. The zombies would not stand a chance against the common house fly.
Glad I could brighten your day. Have an excellent weekend.