Ticks.

Not a critter I ever saw in Florida, and only once in Ohio.

Saw one in Ireland, in May, in a forestry planted forest. I can’t recall when, but it was probably ten years ago.

Himself and I went out foraging for mushrooms at the end of May; no luck, but I did find a tick on my belly a few hours later. I felt a small bump and figured it was a cat-scab (Lumi does like to make biscuits on all of my parts when he is feeling cute). I tried to scratch it off, it didn’t go, I tried harder, no luck. Tried really hard and it made a sound when it came off, a pop. Well hell I know scabs don’t make popping sounds! Yep, a wee tick, and I took it off by accident in the worst way. In any case, it was off, and I’m fine.

Now we all have an awareness ticks are about and local, right?

Fast forward to this week. Himself and I are about to go to bed. He is looking at something on the kitchen floor I cannot see (took my glasses off). ”

“What is that? It looks weird. What is it?” he asks.

“I got no idea, I can’t see shit.”

Figuring it’s a bit of food or something the animals have done (poo, puke, who knows), I grab a napkin and pick it up.

It is a huge, huge, squashed tick. Blood everywhere. Interestingly, it is still quite red, not the black or very dark brown of digested blood.

“Huh. It’s a dead smashed tick. Must have come off the dog? How did it get smushed?” I look at my bare feet. One is clean, one is covered in tick-dog blood in little round spots. So is most of the kitchen floor.

“Dammit.”