After running through a field the other morning, I emerged with so many thistles, burrs and thorns stuck to my socks and shoes I resembled a two-legged porcupine.

At least the nettlesome barbs hadn’t penetrated my flesh. On past, ill-advised detours through brambles, I wound up looking like a 14th-century religious disciple of the Flagellant sect.

This time of year, though, anyone traipsing through brush, weeds and tall grasses is just as apt to become covered with seeds as lacerated by briars.

While some plants protect themselves by growing thorns, others develop pronged seeds in late summer and fall that stick to humans and other animals. Botanists call this method of propagation epizoochory.

Other living things also latch on to people, as most of us are acutely aware.

At last count, over the years I’ve had to pluck off 682 dog and deer ticks.

I also recall with some queasiness a canoe trip in Canada one scorching summer when my companions and I were savagely and relentlessly attacked by crow-sized mosquitoes, black flies, chiggers, gnats and other biting insects.

To escape this biblical plague, I plunged into the murky lake water, but relief was short-lived. After surfacing and climbing back aboard, I saw dozens of squirming leeches had attached themselves to my arms, legs and other body parts, like that famous scene in the movie “The African Queen.”

If memory serves, we cut that voyage short.

In ancient times, medical practitioners used leeches to draw blood from patients; some species that secrete a blood-clotting peptide called hirudin are still used today in some microsurgery procedures, though I’m not sure how comfortable I’d be if I saw my surgeon enter an operating room carrying a container filled with wriggling, worm-like critters.

Anyway, leeches aren’t the only clinging things that have inspired human concepts.

Back in 1941, a Swiss electrical engineer named George de Mestral walking his dog wondered how seeds from the burdock plant clung to his coat and the pooch’s fur. After examining the seeds more closely, de Mestral realized they had minuscule hooks, and a light bulb went off.

Retreating to his laboratory, de Mestral began experimenting with designs and materials and finally came up with a product consisting of two strips of fabric — one containing thousands of tiny hooks and the other thousands of tiny loops. He patented his invention in 1955: Velcro. The name, by the way, is a combination of the French words “velour” (velvet) and “crochet” (hook).

Like most of us, I own a number of items that rely on Velcro fasteners, and for the most part, they’re less cumbersome than buttons or zippers — but, as you must know, Velcro has one major drawback: It gets clogged. I’ve had to replace my watchband several times after it’s become jammed with stray lint and other debris.

Hey, maybe therein lies the solution to the vexing problem inherent to burrs, thistles and nettles!

All we have to do is come up with a material that is so choked with litter there’s no room for plant or animal barbs. Of course, it might be uncomfortable to wear, but I’m sure we can work around that somehow.

OK, all you inventors: Get to work!