Do they even have ticks in the city?
Last night, my husband, Rob had me look at a small growth on the back of the dog's neck. It looked like a whitish, yellow large kernel of corn.
I gagged and told him it was a tick, swollen with blood. The expression on his face showed his disbelief.
You see, he's been a city dweller (Dorchester to be exact and if you know Bostonians, this is important!) his whole life until his move to Cape Cod. He seems to know what a tick is supposed to look like: small and brown, the size of a nail head. However, I guess his boyhood dog never spent most of its days exploring wooded areas.
Which brings me to my gripe. Our dog, Stella enjoys most of her days outside. Although we don't live in the "woods", we do have grass and trees. Thankfully there is a product called Frontline that keeps the fleas and ticks away...provided you (Rob), as the human in charge, remember to apply it to your "best friend".
Admittedly, I spazzed out when he came up from the cellar with and empty box, having used the last of the Frontline probably at some point last fall. (Leaving empty boxes and not writing things on the shopping list are criminal offenses in my mind.)
"Oh, you're awesome!" I proclaimed in a tone that was both sarcastic and degrading, while I was on the phone with my mother.
This was not nice, I admit and Rob was rightfully mad at me. However, here is my defense:
I don't believe he has ever accidentally stepped on a swollen wood tick with his bare feet.
This entry is dedicated to my brother, Ethan. As a teenager, it was his job to spend summer evenings on the back porch deticking our dog, Spock.
What an honor! This has brought back many post-traumatic issues that may result in counseling for me. The worst of the whole de-ticking experience was not trying to sift through the hair in Spock's armpits, but was the black spray-painted pickle jar, filled with rubbing alcohol, that Dad made me store all the ticks in. By the end of the sumer, it could have been designated a Superfund site.ReplyDelete