Especially this time of year, when wood ticks and deer ticks are everywhere. Willa and the cat, Wilbur, go outside whenever they want, which would be fine, but then the little tick taxis want to come back in. I’ve found their riders on couches, on floors, even scurrying up the chest freezer. If they’re stuck on the animals, I won’t pull them off unless my husband is gone; if he’s around, I make him do it. Unlike me, he is genuinely country born and bred. He grew up milking cows, cleaning calf pens and hunting. To him, ticks are a nuisance, not anything to lose your lunch over.
Growing up, “We dealt with so many gross things,” he said.
He has confided some of those things to me, but I will spare you the details, gentle city reader.
Last week, through the dining room window, I glimpsed Willa “playing” outside with a chipmunk. I Calvined and wheeled away. It wasn’t much later that she started barking and barking. And barking.
“What is Willa barking about?” asked our 12-year-old son, who had come down specially from his room to ask the question.
“Maybe she treed a raccoon.” She had done it once before, yapping her head off.
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