Today I met a dumb wood tick. I liked him/her. I'm sure there is a way to tell gender, but today all I cared about was her (I'm tilting female here) IQ. And it was low.
I spent a good piece of today in her territory. High grass, tall weeds. Wood tick paradise. So when I came in I gave myself the inspection. Sure enough. Mid-thigh, right leg, dumb tick.
I reached down, gave a slight tug to ascertain just how deep she'd gone, and pulled. Easy release. I said a few words–gave her a good scolding–and sent her the way of all toilet paper. It's hard not to feel a bit sad for the buggers as they swirl helplessly, but such is life.
Now back to the dumb part. She likely started at the boot and crawled up, wearing out on the leg and setting up shop. Dumb.
See, I'm not twenty-two anymore. Nope. Had she crawled onto the belly, she'd have found plenty of nice rolls in which to hide. And not just on the stomach. Everything on me is just . . . saggier. There are great hiding spots all over. I'm a wood tick's hide-and-seek dream.
But no. Not dumb tick, She came to a halt in the one place I can see without much effort, without contorting and messing up my back. Leg. Middle. Front.
So here's to all you stupid thigh-loving wood ticks. Eat your heart out. Or get smart–my septic is a rotten place to spend your final days.