Joy is my young dog. She will be six years old on September 15. I’m still getting to know her. She prefers my sons to me, so usually she is with them.
Today I went in the room she was in and she was hiding behind my son as he sat at his computer. “What’s wrong with Joy?” I asked.
He didn’t even glance up but replied that she was afraid of a fly.
Did he mean that little fly that was flying around his room? Where did it come from?
He had no idea, but Joy is afraid of flies.
So I got the fly swatter and hit at the fly. And missed. Joy quickly got up and scrambled under the bed.
I’m not sure where the fly went after that.
Later I was in the kitchen making dinner and Joy started in to join me. The fly flew past her. She ran back to my son’s room and got back under the bed.
I swatted at it when it landed on a door. I hit it so hard that my son came out to see what I was doing.
I was saving Joy’s life. Killing the fly.
Once when it had flown near her, she’d snapped at it. “Good Girl”, I told her and she looked at me like I was crazy. Back under the bed she’d gone.
A fly? Not the mailman, the Fed Ex guy, or the yard man who makes a lot of noise when he’s working. Not the Pit Bull that attacked me and my old dog. . . A fly is what scares my silly dog.