June 9, 2003 - Tick Attack

Musings an Online Journal of Sorts By Alyce Wilson
June 9, 2003 - Tick Attack
	My dog Una is nice and clean now, but this wasn't the case right after a trip to the park yesterday. One of the first things she did after we'd found a picnic table was to find something to roll in. Whatever it was had a black, oozy consistency. She had a huge grin on her face. Like a kid who discovered Mommy's lipstick. I'm told that when dogs were wild, they disguised their presence with the smell of their prey, such as deer droppings. Frankly, if the smell of deer poop is traveling towards you, a wise deer would run away. But Una had no excuse, she doesn't need to hunt. I put her food in a bowl every morning. I cleaned her off as best as I could in the bathroom.
Everything was cool for awhile until the Tick Attack. We had moved to a different table, under some pine trees, and I noticed a black spot on her ear. It was moving. The spot was a tick that hadn't yet attached itself. I plucked it off and crushed it. A few minutes later, I saw something crawling up her leg. Again, another tick met its fate. My companion, who also had a dog with him, found some on his dog, as well. And the ticks kept coming. We were under attack. It was like we were in some kind of 1950s horror movie, "Tick Attack." But each one of them seemed to be crawling around Una, disoriented. I believe this is because of the prescription strength flea and tick collar I got her after her experience with Lyme Disease. Apparently, there's nothing you can do to prevent ticks from hopping onto a dog, but you can prevent them from biting. Still, it was enough of a hassle that we moved out into the parking lot and sat on the tailgate of the truck. Even there, surrounded by asphalt, I found another tick on poor, innocent Una. I took out the fine toothed comb I'd brought along for just such a purpose and combed her carefully for any persistent ticks. Between that and the threat of rain, I eventually said good-bye to my companion and headed home. Driving back, I found one more tick crawling on Una, searching for a place to chomp. I threw it out the window, driving 65. When we got home, Una got a bath and then afterwards a thorough combing. Now she's extremely happy, as she gets when the torment of the bath is over. I've made absolutely certain that none of those ticks managed to bumble its way home with us. Whether the ticks know if or not, this is war.
Moral: If I'm in a 1950s horror movie, I'm the hero and the ticks are going down! Copyright 2003 by Alyce Wilson Musings Index
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