I used to have a pet fly. No. Really. I was in New York with my family visiting some relatives. We always stay at my grandparent's house when we're in New York. Unfortunately there is absolutely nothing to do in my grandparent's house other than wonder around looking at antique furniture while breathing in the sharp smell of...well, of the house. There is not other way to explain it. I was sitting by a window listening to the constant buzzing sound of a fly when I realized that this particular fly, which was right by my hand, was crippled. One of his wings was horribly bent. So instead of flying to get from one place to another, he would hop. I instantly bonded with the fly, named him Hoppy, and scooped him up. He would just sit on my hand and look around as I carried him. I would sit on the porch and set him down next to me and he would hop around...never too far away. I brought him all over the place since I obviously couldn't put him somewhere and expect to find him there later. I was very happy, seeing as to how this gave me something to do. Then when I was playing with Hoppy outside, my brother Chad flicked him off my hand into some bushes. I never saw Hoppy again.