Arrietty tried to wear a miniature-horse sized flymask last week. Can you imagine? FarmWife was a fool to even try. Arrietty clearly has a serious case of Donkey Forehead, and the mask was pathetically undersized. FarmWife is going to have to try harder than that.
Maybe FarmWife needn't try, afterall, come to think of it—the flies give Etty wide berth. It is me they love: me, silky sweet me, delicious and decadent me. They eat my seams and edges: my belly, my sheath, my ears, my chest. They eat me alive, slowly, one bite at a time.
FarmWife has me wearing my Moon Helmet and organic flyspray every day, but she is going to have to do something about the deer flies biting my undercarriage. I am waiting for someone to market boxer briefs for gelding mules.
|Old photo, pre-barn|