Lachlan died today. For the second time.
Porter and I have been struggling with a moth invasion for six months. Bags and bags of wool clothes have hit the trash. The salvaged wool pieces hang in ugly plastic bags in our closets. It's been terrible. And gross. But we thought it over.
Then, last weekend, we took Lachlan, the merino sheep, off his wall. How we didn't think that moths that munch on spun, died wool might enjoy unspun, natural wool just as much is beyond me. Frankly, they love it. They cannot get enough. They devoured the entire top of his head. They ruined him.
We'd had a couple deer (Denver and Michael Gregory) - but Lachlan was the majestic creature that sparked our taxidermy spree. Without Lachlan, there probably wouldn't be Daedalus or Icarus (the swans) or Mandela (the nyala) or even Cormack (the highland bull). Would the apartment have ever made it into The New York Times or ELLE Decoration? I don't think so. It was all Lachlan.
We tried to salvage him from the devastation, but it was beyond repair (and we both were on the cusp of asphyxiation by moth ball). So, this morning, I grabbed him by his plastic-wrapped horns and put him in the dumpster. Thank goodness he was covered and I didn't have to look him in the glass eye.
We'll have remember him through the photos and this portrait (above) where I dressed him up and added a bit of red tint to his lustrous woolen locks. And we really have to do something about the lonely, empty oval on the wall where he once looked out over the loft. Goodbye, sweet Lachlan, goodbye.