Fruit flies give me the heebie-jeebies, and not just because they are bugs. One summer, when I was at the tender age of 16 and spending most of my disposable, fast food-earned income on my menagerie of pets, we had a nasty bout of fruit flies in our home. My dad, fed up with it after a while and blaming it on my hamster’s food source—we never really did find the source, actually—sprayed my room with chemicals and killed all of my darlings—two frogs, fish, snails, and a hamster—save one, my spiteful little hamster, Diane, who always bit. My beloved Jack, “the sweet one,” was gone. So when I see fruit flies, I remember my poor, ill-fated pets and my ineptitude with dealing with the insect pests.