Jason.

I was expecting bugs. I even brought a mosquito-slaying zapper. But we have had very few bugs, indeed. That's not my recollection of New York, but it was Syracuse I remembered, and probably the bugs are all there. Except one, a fly, which flew across our living room several days ago and sent us into a panic. "I'll get him later," I promised Twila.

He turned out to be, unfortunately, a very acrobatic and swift fly. I was hampered a bit because I wasn't using rolled-up newspaper, not feeling particularly excited about squashed fly on wherever. So I chased him futilely around the apartment with a DustBuster, again and again.

Then he made a mistake that showed his fly brain was no match for my human, albeit similarly-sized, brain. He went into the bathroom. I had him trapped in a room so small that we couldn't even put a scale inside. HA! Stupid fly!

In moments I was in the bathroom, the door closed, DustBuster in my hand, and I attacked. It didn't go as well as I'd planned. Even though the room was small, the fly had lost none of his flying prowess. So I decided I had to outsmart him.

I know (or think I know) that flies take off backward. So I approached the fly from the rear, slowly, slowly, until the whirring vacuum was only a couple of inches behind him. Then I tried to pounce, but the fly was too fast. Soon I was cursing and violently waving the DustBuster all over the bathroom, toothpaste tubes and towels flying everywhere. "I'll wear the bastard out," I thought. And he did get tired. And so did I. Round 2 to fly.

For some reason, the fly decided to stay in the bathroom. (Certainly *I* had nothing to do with that.) Even though we left the bathroom door open, the fly didn't leave. I made a couple more attempts to vacuum him, but finally I gave up. Instead of trying to kill him, I named him Jason. When I'd go into the bathroom to read, there was Jason, on a towel or the bathtub or the shower curtain, serene and unafraid. I talked to him.

I'm under no illusions. I'm sure Jason pooped on my toothbrush whenever he got the chance. But after my many fevered attempts to slay him, I couldn't really get too upset about his tiny revenges. We were forming an odd relationship, it seemed.

A couple of days ago I grabbed the newspaper (unrolled) and headed into the bathroom. There was Jason, waiting. Though I'd stopped trying to catch him, I could see that age and the numerous attempts on his life had taken a toll. He wasn't the same Jason, he probably couldn't escape the vacuum now, but I wasn't about to go after him again. Instead, I decided to take his picture and then blog about him. When I finished reading, I went upstairs to get my camera.

That went the way things usually go. I decided to check my email first, and soon I was traipsing from one web link to another in search of heaven knows what. Then the front door opened and Twila returned from her run. I leaned over the railing that girds my loft and examined her for new wounds, but she was okay. She told me our traditional post-run "l'histoire du jour." Then she went back to take a shower and I went back to my computer.

In a couple of minutes I heard a most ominous sound, the DustBuster being turned on. Jason!

"STOP!" I wailed at the top of my lungs. "STOP!"

Alas, Twila couldn't hear me. Almost immediately she emerged from the bathroom and said with distasteful glee, "Got him!" My heart sank. The darn fly had been here for so long, then he was sucked up just when I wanted his picture for our blog. Jason, gone.

A couple of hours later I had a thought. Maybe Jason wasn't dead. I emptied the DustBuster on some newspaper and sifted through the dust and Triscuit crumbs. Finally I found him and carefully removed him from the detritus. I blew some of the crud off him, but it was too late. He just lay there in still repose, off to Fly Heaven or Fly Outhouse, or wherever they go.

Then something caught my eye and I leaned down to take a closer look at my old fly friend. Funny, I'd never noticed that tiny goalie mask before.