by Michael B. Wright
There are some people who like to pick off scabs. They pick not only their own, but also those of their friends and relatives. I know some of these people intimately.
I, however, come from the “don’t pick it, or it’ll never heal” school of thought. Several days ago I noticed a scab on the front of my shoulder. It didn’t hurt and it didn’t itch. It was smooth and bore a slight resemblance to a ruby. My surrounding skin was red, so the word “infection” came to mind. I showed it to my “daughter/landlady,” who was visiting (perfect timing) and asked if I should be concerned. As a pre-op nurse, she would know.
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Recognizing my malady, she immediately raised her voice slightly and using medical jargon straight out of Gray’s Anatomy, she blurted, “That’s a tick!” Then she said, “Come with me.” I trotted confidently behind her; I was in no mood for Lyme disease.
I waited in her kitchen while she disappeared briefly before returning with a specific medical instrument.
“I call this my tick twister,” she said.
“Every home should have one,” I responded. It’s a small plastic tool with tines which you carefully slide under the offending beast, then you give it a slight twist as you lift up. The whole wriggling body emerged without leaving the head or other body parts behind as souvenirs.
My skin tone is almost back to my normal shade of pastiness, and I’m ready to take on the next creature, as long as it’s not a Tarantula Wasp or a Red Velvet Cow Killer. For once, my getting “ticked off” turned out to be a good thing.
This was Mike’s first tick since he was a child. If you have any tick adventures you’d like to share, please contact him at micwrighthamo@gmail.com.
