"They can crawl out of there, you know..."

At the risk of certain people deciding that they might never come to my house again, I have a confession to make.  

I've been wanting to talk about this for a while, have spent some time considering the possible ramifications, the potential stigma attached to what I'm about to tell you, and finally, have decided that my silence isn't helping me as much as just getting this off my chest might.  I've calculated the probable losses to me in friends and respect, and in house guests, and frankly am willing to take the risk.  

If it bothers you so much that you quietly unlike me, so be it.  I thought we meant more to each other than that, but would prefer to find out now how reliable you are or aren't, before we get to something serious, like me needing you to pick up a pair of tweezers.

Ok, here we go.

Ticks are an everyday part of my life.  

Yes, ticks, the gross creepy-crawly insect version of zombies, walking around waving their arms in an almost-blind thirst for blood, stopping at nothing to feed, to drink their fill of your insides.

Look, that's the trade-off, ok, for hours spent in the woods with a dog.  Ticks are part of the package, the small print that accompanies crashing through brush, bushwacking off-trail, following your nose (if you're Mr. Burns), following your dog (me).  Although I hoped it would come to a close, we've been in Tick Season for months now, so every day goes like this.

Following our hike, Burns generally jumps up and stretches out on the bed on a light-colored sheet that I've placed there, both to protect the comforter (who wants to wash that thing every weekend?) and because it provides convenient contrast.  While petting him, I'm really grooming a la primate, removing the Nasties, as I call them to Burns so he doesn't freak out, catching them with my fingers before they latch on, walking over and dropping them into the toilet, where they thrash around, dog-paddling (ha). On the rare occasion that I'm too late and they've already settled down to their meal, then I grab tweezers while our very patient and pain-tolerant puppy reclines, and get to work.

I'm not exaggerating, although many times I do just that here in this forum, when I say that late last week, there were 14 ticks swimming around in their temporary pool before I flushed them down, 14 Nasties removed and carried and dropped in the bowl.  We treat the dog with that greasy anti-tick medicine, but that stuff's not magic.  It's not like it creates some kind of Star Trek force field around Burns so that ticks don't go near him.  They still hitch a ride with those waving front legs, making their way to their favorite spots, the ears, the groin, burrowing in.  

Don't get me wrong.  I loathe them and think they're totally disgusting, but they're just a fact of life in my world, so I have made my peace with them, have accepted my role in their particular circle of death.  Because die they do, flushed down into the sewer.  

I admit that there have been a couple of times where I've flushed the main result of my grooming, and then found another one or two and submerged them but forgotten to flush.  The husband does not appreciate this kind of forgetfulness.  There was one time where one clever little zombie managed to swim to the edge of the pool and crawl back out, where my unhappy husband found him when we returned from work that night.  Now he always says to me, a little hush at the edges of his voice, "they can crawl out of there, you know..."  Little does he know how many ticks I do manage to kill by flushing.  Those suckers never come back.

But that one hardy swimmer has planted that seed of doubt about my methodology in Joe's mind.  He would prefer, I'm sure, that I crush them, but that seems far more barbaric to me than my chosen method of waterboarding.  

What's remarkable to me is how few ticks get on me, all in all, considering the time spent in the woods, considering how many I pull off the dog.  Truth is if Burns stayed on trail as I do mostly, then he wouldn't have anywhere near as many -- but he also wouldn't have anywhere near as much fun.

He doesn't return the favor though.  On a rare occasion Sunday morning when I realized (gross, horror) that there was a tick on my low back, for example, Burns was pretty useless.  Slept through the whole thing, in fact.  I was undressing for a much-needed shower, moving gingerly (as always, sigh, darn herniated disc) when I felt some new and weird superficial soreness in my low back.  I was all, shoot, really, more pain? What's this new shit?  And reached back.  And felt a tick.  So disgusting. Naturally, the husband was gone, racing, and would be back who knew when.  And this is not the kind of thing I want to go to the neighbors for help with. This is distinctly not Can I borrow a cup of sugar, May I use the lawnmower.  I suppose this is a true test of intimacy: will you please remove this tick from my low back?

This operation was pretty challenging.  A mirror was no help at all.  I had to do the whole tweezer-removal by feel, really, multiple attempts that ultimately succeeded.  In a way, it's a good thing I couldn't see what I was doing because, really, how gross.  I didn't need to see those little legs waving.  Sick.  And then I flushed him down.  With a vengeance.

I am not always perfect when it comes to the removal.  Clearly, I sometimes miss a few Nasties.  There was that time I was at a meeting at work, looked down at the conference table just in time to see a tick walk off my sleeve and begin to make his way toward my boss.  She didn't appreciate how quickly I hopped up and out of my chair, but then understood completely when I showed her the reason, she recoiled, and I took him for a swim.  

So that's it, that's what I needed to say without shame: that I handle ticks pretty much every day of my life, sometimes just one or two, other days a dozen or more.  It's a small price to pay for rambles in the woods with dogs and newts and deer for company.  If it also means I'll pay the price of fewer house guests, I guess I can live with that.  But listen, if you do come over, you can count on me to groom you, remove any Nasties I see and flush 'em down.  No matter what the husband says, they seldom come back, except that one guy, who met his end anyway, never to return.

Comments

[Cousin Elsa]

Darling cousin, I have spent all my life with animals, including ticks..! when I was a kiddo and any of my pets (including a Cebu Calf) had an inflated with blood tick in the ear, around their necks, or buttocks, I would have fun "popping" them to death...!! yeyyyyy : ) - one less, while I saw the releif in the eyes of the animal. A good trick is to get them ticks drunk...! using plain alcohol that they absorb through their skins they forget what they're doing and stop sucking blood, fall off and then you can crush it, explode it, or burn the darn "bicho" if you want. Ticks are part of our belover animals, part of our walks through the bushes, I got many on a 10 day trip into the Amazones with the Yanomami indians. If we like and enjoy pets and nature, ticks are part of the package. Love you tons, Elsa