Yes. That is right. We are keeping ticks in the house. On purpose. I am actually shaking my head in dismay and disgust this very second.
We live on a wooded lot which means lots of bugs. Termites, ticks, spiders, ants, you name it. In the last four days, we have pulled five ticks off of our two dogs (four of which came off our hairless dog, go figure). May I add that these are the only ticks our dogs have ever had. Holy Moses, ticks disgust me. Blech.
When I found the first ones, I called Nathan in a panic, expecting him to fly home from work and dislodge the little parasites. “Dogs get ticks all the time,” he tells me. But not our dogs… The ones we kiss and snuggle in bed with. What would I have done if the dogs had ticks and he was traveling? (Stay tuned, that’s later in our saga.) Nathan came home on his lunch hour, showed me how to pull them out with tweezers and we popped them into a jar. I don’t know why I felt the need to save them… I’m thinking I watched too much Discovery Channel in my formative years, because I think you are supposed catch and save something that bites you, right? Right?
I set the jar on the kitchen counter, thinking we would show them to Finn. He is showing way too much interest in arachnids at the moment, and ticks are the only ones I know of besides spiders and scorpions. Sure enough, he was smitten. So much so that he ate a snack with them. Like, he plunked the jar right next to his yogurt and studied them the entire time he was sitting at the table. Ewe. But, whatever, he is a boy.
The next morning, I realized that I hadn’t thrown them out when I got a tug on my pant leg while I was making breakfast.
“Mom, hey, could you give me those two tickets, please? I want to talk to them.”
Now he eats all his meals with his little “tickets.” Ask me why I haven’t thrown them away. Not for the reason you think. Not because I want to indulge Finn’s every whim, but because I want them to suffer. The little bastards.
We originally thought we picked them up in Pennsylvania while we were camping. Then we found one in our other car. And one on the floor by the back door. And just as you may have suspected, I found three more on the dog the day Nathan left for another trip. While I was pulling them out of poor, poor Walter, I was actually cursing them out loud.
(Look away if you are easily offended by improper language.)
“You better die, you mother fucker. I hope that hurts, you little shit. Eff you and your effing mom. Don’t mess with me, my family or my dogs, you sons of bitches.”
This is what I was actually saying to these mindless little buggers. Out loud. (Not withing earshot of the kids, Mom.) And not to be ironic or anything; that is exactly what I was feeling. So I told them. While I smashed them with a pair of tweezers.
All this from me, who hates to see any living thing suffer. I have taught Finn to kill the ants we have in the house “fast and hard” (that’s what she said) so they don’t suffer. I hate the hornet we found in the living room, but I don’t want it to die writhing in pain. I love leather and hamburgers as much as the next person, but I hope all those animals die quickly and in the least amount of pain possible. With the exception of the ticks. Every morning, I take a look at our two adopted ticks in their foodless jar and I think to myself; “Yesssss. You are still alive. I hope it sucks in there.”
Now I am hyper sensitive to any little black fleck in the house; OH GOD, ITS A TICK!! I am glad that they might be easy to see on our white sheets, because I am terrified they are going to hide in the covers and latch on to my lady parts while I am sleeping. I have nightmares about millions of little ticks all over the kids, dogs and me. I check the dogs and kids twice a day. My OCD is kicking into overdrive.
To recap, Finn loves our new pets. He enjoys talking to them and counting their legs. I, on the other hand, think that this must be what that guy from the Saw movies must feel like when he does his thing.