The deer fly patches are here! No fooling around this time—I got 40 of them, enough to last the rest of the summer.
Forget black flies and mosquitoes. For most of the summer, there is no more annoying and malicious creature in rural New Hampshire than the deer fly. For those who haven’t had the pleasure, let me introduce you. A deer fly is black and yellowish and about the size of an average house fly, and they attack in groups of five to ten.
Here is how they operate. Each one will fly around your head very fast about ten times, at a distance of maybe six inches, just to annoy you (remember, there are five to ten of them doing this simultaneously); then it will land—most often on the back of your head—for about a tenth of a second and take off before you can even think of hitting it, just to really annoy you. It will do this about a dozen times, and finally zero in and bite you really hard—which is the only part of the routine that serves any legitimate purpose, and which could very easily be accomplished without the preliminaries.
You can’t outrun them. They laugh at insect repellant. You can’t move fast enough to swat them. You are virtually helpless.
They are among the most vile creatures known to humans. If you think I’m exaggerating, consider this: they don’t just fly around casually, hoping to stumble upon some hapless fool out for a walk. No, they have a plan.
When I get home from work each day, they meet me in my driveway. As soon as I pull in, I see them swarming around the driver’s-side window, waiting for me to emerge. But it’s not as if they hang around in the driveway all day. No, they show up only when I do. They know my schedule.
Now, let me say this. I consider myself a gentle person. As I explained last time, I leave other sentient beings alone if they do the same to me. Judging from reader responses, my policy is considered near the pacifist end of the spectrum. But enough is enough.
Enter the deer fly patch. It is a simple, ingenious, elegant invention—a 2″ x 6″ strip of extra sticky, two-sided, flesh-colored tape that you stick to the back of your baseball hat. Then you go for a walk. As always, the deer flies will begin circling, and then will begin landing.
But then something different will happen. You’ll notice a steady decline in the number of satellites, accompanied by a frantic buzzing at the back of your head. Take off the hat, and you’ll be greeted by a beautiful sight: several deer flies, trying desperately to free themselves from the adhesive. They’ll be rocking back and forth, pushing down with one tiny foot as they try to extract another, all the while getting more and more stuck. If the wings are not stuck, too, they’ll be going at about 8,000 rpm.
It is fabulous. You can sit and watch them for hours. You can take your finger and circle it around their little heads repeatedly, taunting them with the prospect of being crushed at any moment. But you won’t crush them, because you would rather let them endure a little of their own treatment.
Okay, confession time. Lately I have, in fact, been putting a quick, merciful end to their suffering. Despite my best efforts, I continue to evolve. Torturing insects, even deer flies, doesn’t hold much appeal. I can’t explain it. Yes I can, but I’m not going to. But I will say that Michael Vick and Alberto Gonzales probably have something to do with it.
Anyway, torture—not funny. But if I exterminate them promptly and mercifully, I can still take great pleasure in my bounty—after all, I am decreasing not only my own suffering but that of my neighbors, their livestock, and their pets. On a good day, I might bag 20 of the pests in a half-hour walk. Twenty dead deer flies on the back of my head! I get all tingly just thinking about it.
Because they attack as soon as I get out of the car, or as soon as I leave the house, I wear my deer fly hat pretty much all the time during the summer. I change the patch when it collects about 30-40 flies. A hat covered with dead flies is, admittedly, not the height of fashion, even in New Hampshire, and it has occurred to me that this could explain why, historically, I don’t get a lot of second dates. But one must not lose sight of one’s priorities.
On one occasion, I was even asked to leave one of Concord’s finer dining establishments. “Your hat is covered with flies,” the maitre d’ explained coldly, as if I might not know this.
“Deer flies,” I clarified. “And they’re dead, anyway.” I took off the hat and surveyed it. “Mostly.”
He was not persuaded. No doubt he was one of those defeatist naysayers who think we should negotiate with deer flies. But this is a fight we cannot afford to lose. If we don’t take the fight to them, they’ll bring it to us.
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Deer fly patches can be ordered by sending a check ($12 for 12 patches, $25 for 40 patches) to DETEX, 17852 10-Mile Road, LeRoy, MI 49655, or by calling 231-832-2323. Miraculously, the company does not appear to have a website. I have no connection to the company and have nothing to gain from your purchase except the satisfaction of shrinking the deer fly population.
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Editor’s note: Another error in The Johnston Papers! The last edition contained a sentence that began as follows: “As previously, stated, . . . .”
What kind of idiot (you must be thinking) would put a comma between an adverb and the verb it modifies? Answer: a complete idiot. Or maybe one whose finger slipped and who didn’t proofread carefully. But one who at least admits his mistakes. Sorry.
What’s equally troubling is that only one reader called my attention to it. Is anyone else paying attention?
