Caleb brought me the remains of a fly yesterday--one of the big, tropical ones that drones like a helicopter and thunks against windows with nearly enough force to shatter the pane. There wasn't much left to it since the ants had gotten to it first. By the time it landed on my desk it was little more than the shell of a fly with legs and wings long gone. Caleb dropped it next to my arm and stood there grinning waiting for me to notice.
"Ewwwww," I exclaimed. "Caleb, do you really have to haul dead things around the house."
"It's not dead, Mom," he insisted. "The fly is just cold."
To prove his point he blew a little puff of air making the fly-shell tremble. "See. It shivered."