And I don’t. I shut the door firmly behind me and stride purposely down the path leading away from the Castle—the Castle being the name the locals have given to the three story European-style house I happen to live in.             The day has been a scorcher, but by now the heat has shut off and a sweet breeze ruffles the trees, freshly green in their shiny new foliage. It’s a five-stars evening. Or it would be if you take away the hoards of airborne piranhas—the thick clots of midges, black flies and mosquitoes buzzing around me in bloodsucking anticipation.
            Lucky for me I’m carrying my ammo and wearing my protective shell: jeans, socks and sneakers, long sleeve off-white jersey, wrap-around sunglasses, wide-brimmed hat over headscarf, insect repellant and smoke from a cigarette I puff on even though I don’t smoke. Overkill? You’ve got to be kidding. 
            Halfway across the field, I pause and quickly look back to see if anyone is following me. The coast is clear. All except for Carmela, our American Milking Devon. There she is, grazing peacefully on her favourite green stalks in the lush early June meadow, her tail swishing rhythmically in an attempt to ward off the ravenous bugs.
            Surprised to see me at this time of day, she raises her head and, as if alarmed, gives her horns a mighty shake. Then she lifts her head higher still and pierces the calm of the evening with a tremendous bellow. I stare at her, transfixed by the gold in her eyes. Effortlessly its message flows deep into my consciousness. She’s warning me. But I ignore her. Nothing can stop me.
            Silly animal, I say to myself as I stride to the edge of the field and move onto the path leading toward the woods.
            A few moments later, when I pause to look over my shoulder again, she has gone back to foraging, her tail swinging gently as deepening shadows glide silently across the field. But her presence is still with me. I can feel the imprint of her eyes and hear her resounding call of alarm.