Ticked Off

I woke up this morning with a sore neck. I rubbed it, found a deer tick the size of a pencil-point sitting atop a grape-sized lump.
Lovely.

We've had a quiet year tick-wise, likely because it's been so dry. Despite spotting Tasha and Sullie (the evil cat), normally we're picking blood-swelled ticks off the animals' bedding--or stepping on the stupid things and splattering blood. Not so this summer. With the continuing dry weather, I thought we'd dodged the bullet.

Now this. I started antibiotics and pondered why now? Steve theorizes their reappearance is a result of the forester's work. He's been plowing over brush and felling trees, maybe driving the ticks toward the untouched land, such as what's left of the path Tasha and I walk.

And we won't stop walking. No way. This afternoon I pulled on my Wellington boots (normally reserved for downpours or high snow) and marched back out, confident the rubber footwear would keep the ticks from climbing up my pants.

Remember that pile of poop in the path, that I couldn't clear because of my one-handedness? I gleefully kicked dirt over it, then kicked it into the brush. What a feeling of power, to clear the path with three good kicks.

Interesting sequence of events. The forester cuts and plows, stirring up ticks. I pull on the boots as a defensive act, only to find I can use them "offensively" to keep my path clear.