Piotr Ilyitch

I've named my pet, Piotr Ilyitch, after the composer Piotr Ilyitch Tchaikovsky. I believe that my Piotr Ilyitch is a hybrid—part Russian and part something else (not too sure what). Whatever his ethnic origins, Piotr Ilyitch is dear to me, not to mention very handsome—his black coat is lustrous and his legs well formed. Piotr has two large eyes in addition to three ocelli—peepers that sit like a trio of tiny hats on top of his head and help the dear one maintain his orientation in space. On his wings—which he coquettishly flutters when in an amorous mood—I've observed notes of iridescent blue, especially when the light strikes them in a particular way. Piotr Ilyitch is an early riser—his preferred time is 6:27 Daylight Savings at which hour he buzzes around my head as I lie half awake in bed, demanding breakfast. You may be wondering why I keep musca domestica—commonly known as a house fly—as a pet. You might even make fun of me for my somewhat unusual—alright, peculiar if you insist—avocation. No need, my friend, to suppress the smile hovering around your lips—in fact, go ahead, laugh if that makes you feel better. As to your unasked question—why would I keep a fly as a pet? Why, indeed?

Well you might be blessed to have a loving, devoted husband, a loving, devoted wife, or a loving, devoted anyone with whom you live. But I inhabit a solitary space, a state of affairs that appears to be fancy free—but in reality is often lonely, achingly, even suicidally lonely. I never would have thought that a fly could comfort me, provide companionship, keep me on course. Then again, why not?

Once I decided to free myself of the prejudices and dictates of convention, I opened myself to a universe full of wondrous possibilities. Perhaps you think of flies as hideous creatures, transmitters of bacteria and viruses, nuisances with their incessant buzzing who contaminate the lambchop on your dinner plate or the goblet of cabernet sauvignon on your linen tablecloth.

Allow me to inform you otherwise—to educate you on the beneficent role that the larvae of musca domestica performs in the environment. If all they did was to decompose rotting organic matter such as manure, it would be dayenu. If they recycled nutrients and cleaned up waste, it would again be dayenu. Or, if their only contribution to the environment was as pollinators of yummy crops such as chocolate, mangos, and avocados, I repeat, dayenu—enough!

My intention is not to write a biological treatise but to inform you, dear reader, of the unusual, yet compatible (even loving) relationship between myself (homo sapiens) and Piotr Ilyitch (musca domestica). Do not the many fine attributes of such a creature suggest a correspondence with our own? Is not the housefly one of God's creatures? Hath not a fly eyes? Hath he not a mouth? Antennae? Organs? Is he not subject to hunger? To disease? To winter frost and to summer heat? Does musca domestica not feel shock, outrage and pain when smacked by a flyswatter? When sprayed with insecticide as he buzzes around the room he thinks of as his kitchen? Does he not suffer from the fumigating exterminator hell bent on wiping out his entire species—including parents, siblings, cousins, aunts and uncles? What else can this be but fly genocide?

I confess there was a time when I too was disgusted by houseflies. What a relief to shed this and other prejudices—anti-this and anti-that, constricting attitudes that rob joy from our lives, wreaking unfathomable harm and misery on others.

As for living alone—even those of you who share your life with a spouse, partner, or children might feel the need for additional companionship. For decades I considered buying a dog—a labradoodle, perhaps, or a goldendoodle. Even a little schnoodle. But at the last moment my courage failed: a dog must be walked, fed, requires the services of a veterinarian, and occasionally has to be placed in a kennel. All of this is time-consuming, hard on the doodle, and precarious for the pocketbook. Piotr Ilyitch, on the other hand, costs nothing, will never need a veterinarian, and will never have to be placed in a kennel.

Every morning while I have breakfast, the dear one quietly sits on the window sill, observing me with a degree of respect and curiosity. Today I coaxed him to come to the table. He at once flew to my plate, accidentally landing on the yolk of my fried egg. "No need to fear, Piotr Ilyitch. I know it was an accident," I reassured him.

To show there were no hard feelings, I set out a tiny cup of water so that he could bathe himself—he's quite fastidious—and then tore off a small piece of my toast, spreading it with Irish butter and Bonne Maman strawberry preserves (his favorite flavor). I placed this on his special coaster and invited Ilyitch to dig in. It gave me great joy to watch him delicately nibble on his repast.

Having overcome my distaste for phylum Arthropod (a fancy name for "housefly"), my life has expanded, become richer and more diverse. For one thing, I'm never alone. My horizons have broadened. I'm now open to admire the many qualities of my musca domestica—the iridescent beauty of his wings (already mentioned), the music of his persistent Tschaikovskian zizzing, and his ability to fly—something I've never been able to achieve despite my university degrees.

How comforting to return home after a night out and see Piotr Ilyitch flying around the living room in welcoming ecstasy, or to wake up each morning to the sound of his buzzing next to my pillow as he flashes his wings in friendly greeting, impatient for me to get out of bed and prepare breakfast for him.