During a dinner party this week, I went to the kitchen to retrieve my glass of wine. There, I found a fly in my drink. Not a small, fruit fly but a full-sized housefly. He was swimming vigorously in the glass of blush wine and trying to get out. I am calling him a him, because he looked like a guy fly. But what do I know – perhaps I’m wrong. Or I’m being sexist. Or just have no clue how to determine the gender of a fly. Anyway, he looked like a he to me, so he’s a he for this story. I’ll call him Monte. A solid fly name, don’t you think?

After watching him struggle, I thought, my friend, you will die another day. If you were my mother, my dog or a bird, I wouldn’t hesitate. Life is a gift. I try not to be species-ist when it comes to life. We should all get a shot at living as long as we can. Because life is awesome.

I grabbed a paper towel and curled the edge into a ramp for him to walk up. A concept that he clearly didn’t understand, because he didn’t grab on. Instead, he swirled around underwine (as opposed to underwater,  a distinction needs to be made, I think). So I went at it again with a dry corner, trying to push him up to the air with the paper towel. Still nothing. He fell off again, spiralling again.

Out loud, I told him he would stay living today. Turning the paper towel to a dry edge, I finally scooped him out of the wine. He landed on his back, wings down. Damn. So I slowly used the final dry edge to flip him over. He stood for a second, then started walking around. After shaking off his wings, he flew away. Today wasn’t his day to go. It felt good to save his life.

I drank the rest of the wine, in case you were wondering.

It had the sweet, sweet taste of salvation.

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