It's Friday Fly Day, when folks post images of flies. 

Flies seem to the entomological equivalent of Rodney Dangerfield's "I-don't-get-no-respect" quote.

So how about a black syrphid fly, a Mexican cactus fly, Copestylum mexicanum, nectaring on a Mexican sunflower, Tithonia rotundifolia?

The genus Copestylum includes more than 350 species in the new world, according to Martin Hauser, senior insect biosystematist with the Plant Pest Diagnostics Branch of the California Department of Food and Agriculture (CDFA).

The female Mexican cactus fly lays its eggs in rotting or dying cactus tissue.

This fly, about 3/4 of an inch long, is a delight to see in a patch of Mexican sunflowers mostly frequented by honey bees and Gulf Fritillaries. It's big. It's bold. And it's beautiful.

Happy Friday Fly Day! Respectfully...

In your childhood, somebody probably gave you a jack-in-the-box toy, a music box that you crank up, and then the lid springs opens and out pops a wildly dressed clown, startling you and everyone around you.

A praying mantis sighting is something like that, but without the music box. You're walking in the garden and suddenly you notice that the Mexican sunflower, Tithonia rotundifola, appears to have an extra petal. 

You look closer and you see a triangular head with bulging eyes. And a spiked foreleg that looks as if it's extending a hand in (fake) friendship. It's a praying mantis and it's staring right at you.

Such was the case recently when a female praying mantis, Mantis religiosa, popped up between the petals.

Jackie-in-the-box!

"Nice to meet ya, m'dear," she seemed to be saying. "Too bad you're not a bee."

It's beginning to look a lot like...Halloween.

If you haven't noticed, stores are gearing up for Halloween with assorted ghosts, goblins and ghouls for you. 

We remember Halloween 2023 when a female migratory monarch fluttered into our pollinator garden. She checked out the milkweed (we had several native and one non-native species) and chose to sip nectar on the tropical milkweed, Asclepias curassavica, a non-native. 

We managed to capture several images of her around 5:30 p.m. before she left on her journey to overwinter in coastal California.

The Center for Biological Diversity, headquartered in Tucson, says on its website: "Across their range, monarchs are threatened by pesticides, climate change, ongoing suburban sprawl, and fragmented and poisoned habitats as they navigate their way across the continent. They need a helping hand from the government, businesses and concerned individuals."

Threats? To that we'd add a minor threat: such predators as birds, spiders and mantises.

Monarchs in western North America overwinter in coastal California (roosting in eucalyptus, Monterey pines, and Monterey cypresses), while those in eastern North America "have a second home in the Sierra Madre Mountains of Mexico" (roosting in oyamel fir forests), as noted by the U.S. Forest Service.

"Researchers are still investigating what directional aids monarchs use to find their overwintering location," the U.S. Forest Service says. "It appears to be a combination of directional aids such as the magnetic pull of the earth and the position of the sun among others, not one in particular."

We're glad to see that the raging controversy over native vs. non-native milkweed is subsiding a bit, as the more crucial threats are pesticides, habitat loss, and climate change. After all, tropical milkweed, a native of Mexico, has been in California for more than 100 years. And longer than that when you consider that California was once part of Mexico. A. curassavica is also native to Central America (including Belize, Costa Rica, El Salvador, Guatemala, Honduras, Nicaragua, and Panama) and South America (including Colombia, Ecuador, Peru, and Venezuela), according to Johnny Butterflyseed.

So, here you are, a newly eclosed Western tiger swallowtail, Papilio rutulus, eager to sip some nectar from a Mexican sunflower, Tithonia rotundifola, in a Vacaville garden.

It's a warm, windless day, and you're anxious to score, score, score.

You touch down on a Tithonia, but something whizzes by your tails.

Whoa! What was that? 

You're startled, alarmed, and irritated. It's a territorial male long-horned bee, probably a Melissodes agilis. He aims to dislodge you from your blossom in his attempt to save the nectar for his would-be girlfriends.

You teeter, then totter, then take off. You touch down on another Tithonia.

Hey! Bee brain! Quit targeting me? Go away! 

You head for another blossom, determined to grab a least "a little" nectar.

Stop it! Leave me alone! Go take a vacation!

But the bee isn't about to take a vacation. And he won't allow your "staycation."

Spoiler alert: The butterfly admits defeat and departs the flower garden, exasperated but with tails intact. The bee emerges victorious, its real estate intact.

Score: Bee, 3, Butterfly, 0. 

The turf battle is over for today. Tomorrow? That's another day and another battle.