Sneaking up on dirt

Things are going down fast here. I didn't realize how pathetically fragile I had become until this morning. My morning ritual this time of year (our life here is divided into two seasons--when the cows come home, and when the cows go abroad. The location of the cows dictates the fly population, and we all know that flies drive my life) is to walk around the house focusing on the favorite fly roosts and picking them off one by one. They like corners this time of year. I either suck them up in the Shark, swat them, or just pinch them using a tissue. Today I spied one disinctly contrasting with the white bathroom floor tile. I grabbed the swatter (or what's left of it--I'm not gentle) and bashed the sucker. He crumbled on the floor. Not a fly, afterall, but a clod of dirt. No satisfaction at all. I stood looking at the dust. A simple case of mistaken identity. There will be other flies. I'll move on from this...