I Am a Sick Tick. I Am a Sassy Tick.

Notes from Slightly Above Ground

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Wind blows through the soft blades of grass, still fresh with first light’s morning dew. All eight of my legs perched on the edge of this leaf in a dance of hunger, of anticipation. In the quiet hours, the other girls and I swap stories.

We know what we like, what we’re looking for: a bare ankle, exposed toes, sweaty napes of necks, a peekaboo midriff that L.L. Bean Insect Shield shirt couldn’t quite reach. Oh, we noticed. And we like that you’re putting in the effort. Out here, doing what we do? There are too many dangers to count. Mainly opossums and duct tape. The occasional chicken or frog.

Okay, there are basically three or four dangers. But they will kill you, graveyard dead.

There’s no one way to make a connection on this lonely trail. Some ladies prefer the slow crawl up a shoe, over a sock and into the vast landscape of leg hair that curls and corkscrews like a cluster of rolling hills (foothills, if you will). A few timid sisters wait it out on a backpack or a water bottle, until they finally work up the nerve to attach.

But the boldest gals will simply launch themselves from a tree branch — no parachute, no wings — only the force of gravity and an animal need to taste flesh. To place our “mouth parts” on some warm, human part of you. Oh, you don’t believe me? You think “tick rain” is a myth? Then how did one of our nymphs end up on your scalp? Or behind your ear? We’re women of action. When we see what we want, nothing can stop any of these eight legs on a “quest.”

Sure, we’ve heard the slurs hurled in our direction: parasites, bloodsuckers, vampires. And look, we’re not blameless. We have our own collection of insults: hosts, meal tickets, platelet daddies.

Honestly, hasn’t there been enough hate? On a muggy summer night or even a cool night in early to late fall, nowadays extending as far as November or December, who isn’t looking for a warm place to crash out and binge feed?

Yes, yes. Okay. I will admit we have occasionally crossed lines in the name of bloodlust. Like that time you found one of us in your butt crack at summer camp or that night I spent on your pillowcase. Fine, maybe we did push the limits. But you have to admit your reaction was unhinged. Pressing a burning match against our hard-shelled scutums? Dousing us with bleach? Practically waterboarding us with Dollar General peppermint oil? At least use Aveda or Thrive.

Let’s put the past behind us. I mean, look at it this way. I chose you. Out of all the hairy ankles that passed my way, the foxes, the stray dogs, the cats, the squirrels, that one guy in the Lululemon Pace Breaker pants, I picked you. Something about your Type A blood called to the ancient arachnid part of me, and I answered. Hold still. This won’t hurt a bit. Trust me, I know how to numb the pain away.

Oh, you think I’m using you? That I’m engorging myself to entice a future mate? Don’t worry about him. He’s weak. He’s a hanger-on. What we have? It’s special. Long after I’ve had my fill and dropped off without you noticing, preferably in a park or a backyard, you’ll think of me. I’ll take a part of you with me, and you’ll always have a little something of me to remind you of our time together — in your bloodstream, in your joints, in your brain, and maybe even in your heart.