On the Table, Part 2

This week’s slice of life will be the dramatic conclusion to On the Table, Part 1. If you have not yet read that post, I would encourage you to do so before reading today’s post.

When I arrived at my brother’s home, I went straight to the kitchen table. After a day of my imagination running wild with fear, it was time to face the fly predators.

The bag was smaller than expected: about eight inches by eight inches, perhaps an inch thick. The front was transparent, so I had a clear view of the contents. It looked like it was full of sawdust and dark brown, chubby rice-shaped objects. The top was a peel-to-open closure, which was not super reassuring. I was hoping for something that might require cutting—some kind of human intervention—to release the fly predators from their enclosure.

Priority number one was to find a different location for them to await hatching than the kitchen table. I thought the garage might be a better spot until I read the directions on the back of the bag. Apparently, keeping them in a warmer location would hasten the hatching.

I considered putting them in the refrigerator. Maybe I could keep the little monsters cool enough to not hatch until my brother returned?

However, the thought of them in the refrigerator was even more unappealing. Besides, these little guys were likely expensive, and I didn’t want to actually kill them. They had a job to do. (As did I.)

I compromised on the dining room table. Still indoors, so cool enough, but out of sight (and mostly out of mind). It’s not like I would be able to forget about them with my brother texting at least once a day to ask if they had hatched yet (laughing so hard he’s crying emoji).

So, I kept a wary eye out and went about my business.

Two days later, I spotted movement in the bag.

I was surprised at how small the fly predators were—maybe a third of the size of a fruit fly. Not nearly as scary looking as I had expected. Still unsettling to see them crawling around inside the bag, though. It made me itchy just looking at them.

That first day post-hatch I left them in the bag. It was supposed to thunder storm later, and I rationalized that if I spread them out in the corral right before it rained, they would just wash away.

Honestly, I was still scared to open the bag. I was sure the insects would rush out toward me when I tried to spread them in the corral.

The second day I was out of excuses. I headed out to the corral in muck boots, long pants, and a long-sleeved shirt. I fed the horses so they would stay busy and not get in the way. Then I found some primo fly predator real estate, held my breath, and opened the bag.

To my surprise (and delight), all the wood shavings in the bag meant that when I poured the contents out, they went straight down to the ground, taking all the inhabitants of the bag with them.

No swarming. No crawling up my arm. No flying about.

Right down into the horse manure.

Bravo to the agricultural engineer who designed this whole operation, because it could not have gone more smoothly.

I was finished in seconds.

Which was good timing, because one of the horses had gotten curious and come over to investigate. I’m not saying he chased me into the barn. . . but it would be inaccurate to say that he didn’t chase me into the barn.

So we’ll call it a draw on the tally of mastering ranch-life skills for this visit.