I woke up thinking of ticks. This is not surprising since, among other things, The Star has been covering these pesky pests for decades now. Most recently, we ran a story about “four-posters,” which are feeding stations that daub pesticides onto deer that try to to get at the tasty grain or corn. Baiting deer is illegal if a hunter is doing it, but when the quarry is ticks, almost anything goes.
Living where I do down in the dunes past Amagansett, ticks are just part of the scenery. The dogs bring them in from the edges of the lawn. Ticks climb on Ellis as he retrieves a basketball from the brush behind his hoop. They get on me from who knows where, as I putter in the garden or at the woodpile.
I scratched absent-mindedly at an itch while in the produce area at the I.G.A. last week and pulled a tick out of the back of my shorts. (Yeah, I know, too much information.) Not so much surprised as momentarily perplexed, I hesitated near the onions thinking about what to do. At home, we either entomb them in tape or roast them alive with a flame. I thought for a second about carrying it over to the housewares and grabbing a box of matches. No, that wouldn’t work. So I crushed it with my thumbnail and hoped for the best.
Ticks are remarkably tough and fast. On Wednesday morning, I dislodged one on my hip and only caught up with it when it had near to circumnavigated my belt. Like tiny ninja, they are silent and deadly; I, along with my sister and other family members, have the tick-caused allergy to red meat. I haven’t died from it yet, but come to think of it, I should check if my EpiPen is up to date.