Blood Sports

…in which Uncle Duke goes one-on-one with ticks.

I have this thing going with ticks. The deal is that I enter into their space on a fairly regular basis, and they try to make me a meal. I actually do not object to this. Blood-sucking parasites have to eat too. They don’t eat much, and I am warm blooded and a pretty tasty, tick morsel, if I do say so myself.

What it’s about is an individual case of survival-of-the-fittest in which I am trying to resist becoming the victim. It is the age-old story---the Hunter and the Hunted. In this case I am the Hunted. It is a friendly competition that has become not-so-friendly. This summer, it has become…personal. This is now…mano-a-ticko!

The tick is a more than worthy adversary, to be sure. It patiently lays in wait in bushes and trees for what Biologists euphemistically call “hosts”---you, me, dogs, deer, possum. It is particularly sensitive to movement and carbon dioxide, signals that a host may be near. Their grasping forelegs allow them to climb on and quickly find a protected spot. They're faster than they look. The little buggers can motor when they want. And their crablike legs and a sticky secretion help hold the tick to its host. They then sink their specialized mouthparts into the flesh, inject a little anti-coagulant and begin to feed. When they are full, when they are gorged in blood, they drop off. In truth, they are amazingly efficient little feeding machines and are well-represented all over the world. But for all their efficiency, they do not get much respect. They are in fact feared, vilified, defiled and despised.

Well I have all the respect in the world for this humble, little prick of an arachnid. But I confess they are becoming a considerable annoyance to me. I am spending more and more of my time detaching them from my nether parts, and I admit to measurable resentment. Blasphemy and high invective have been ineffective thus far, and my threats are admittedly empty. I adamantly refuse to wear long sleeve shirts all summer, or to duct tape my cuffs, or to stay out of the woods. And I steadfastly refuse to use any stinking sprays.

Historically, my general strategy in these cases has always been to evolve. Change per se, which is to say changing my own behavior, is not my strong suit. That requires a certain mental dexterity that I’ve never mastered. Additionally, I do not make concessions well, even when faced with troublesome facts. In short, I change with considerable resistance and very little grace. However, I can tolerate discomfort for long periods of time. This, coupled with my natural inclination to obstinacy, has required my physiological self to evolve pretty quickly and effectively.

For example, mosquitoes don’t bother me much. They used to. Oh, my! They would buzz around my ears all night and suck on my knuckles and toes at will. They were a tremendous source of aggravation and I would flail away at them and curse them and their maker on a pretty regular basis. But I never conceded to those mosquito repellants or bug sprays. No Sir! All that stuff was just one more thing to lug along on the camping trip and clutter up closets the rest of the time. And I hate those yuppie insect candles. They are designed to be used once or twice and then accumulate in one’s basement. And besides, to my mind, they are beacons to the insect world, advertising ankles and elbows to be nibbled. Protein by the pound, they proclaim. They only inflame mosquito blood lust if you ask me.

Anyway, I’ve always preferred to curse the darkness rather than light one mosquito coil. Evolve or Die, I swore. And to be honest, there were some rough days and nights in there. But by refusing all those applied, external defense systems, my body was forced to resort to Plan B---the Interior Defense System. I am not exactly sure how it works (I am not always privy to my body’s inner workings. It does not care to worry me with such things.) but I’m pretty sure that I have ingeniously evolved to either smell bad or taste bad to mosquitoes. Maybe both. The end result is they just don’t mess with me much. They choose others. And if they do bite me, it doesn’t itch. So I deduce that I have somehow developed an immunity to mosquito saliva. What normally takes 100's of generations, I've managed to accomplish in not-even one. I'm quite proud actually.

This happens all the time in the natural world. In response to predatory pressures, chemicals combine to provide a natural defense strategy. Organisms change. This only proves what I’ve believed for a long time. As an organism, I am pretty smart. As an organism, I make a lot of quick and pretty snappy decisions. If my brain gets involved, there are limitations. I tend to overcomplicate things, and certain restrictions may indeed apply. But as a biological entity, as an organism operating on instincts, I hold I'm pretty gosh-darned shrewd.

With some other critters however, my alternate long-term strategy has been to negotiate. I long ago made my peace with snakes and spiders. In the snake pact, I promised to remove any of their brethren from the asphalt where they had been flattened and mangled. Out of respect. Snakes in particular do not like their dead defiled like that. And they are ill-equipped to operate a scoop shovel. The snakes for their part agreed to address me as “Sir” and not sneak up on me unawares. It is a workable arrangement. I have never been bitten by a snake that I didn’t deserve it.

As for spiders, I try to learn their Proper Names and give their webs a wide berth. It’s not easy spinning all that silk and weaving it into such grand art. In the world I am familiar with, form and function seldom merge with such beauty. I am an ardent admirer of their work and desire only to leave it the way I found it. For three summers I have shared a workspace with, at last count, five generations of Argiopes, the black and gold ones. I sidestep their webs and feed them grasshoppers (for whom I have little affinity) when times are lean. They are a handsome family, for sure. Appreciative and very courteous too. They wouldn’t waste their venom on me.

Even poison oak is open to negotiation and accord. Several years ago I cut a deal with it. I promised to show it respect and not hack it or whack it or shoot it with poisons just because it was there. In return, it would not penalize me for inadvertent brushes or incidental contact. It's really just a little overly defensive and self-protective by nature. I can relate actually. Thus far, we have both been good to our word. It’s an agreement we both live with rather well, I think.

Chiggers don't much bother me anymore either. Though I can't claim much credit there. Since you can't really see them, dialogue is limited. And I'm not sure what I could offer them anyway. I think I just got old and stringy, too tough to eat. Chiggers like easy meals, and I'm mostly not it.

But getting back to my duel with ticks, I have not been able to strike a deal with them. And my ability to adapt to this particular predator is seriously in question. (I am apparently a prodigious CO2 emitter.) But I will reluctantly admit that they helped bring about the most shining moment of the summer. I owe them, it turns out, for a bonding moment between myself and my sons which is burned in for good.

Before I go there, I must admit to being proud of my primate roots. For some reason I cling darkly to them. I actually like roots and berries, and the thought of eating grubs is not at all reprehensible to me. So it was the pinnacle of my primate career the other night---laying on the bed in my underwear, with my male heirs, my offsprings, combing through my body hair, picking the ticks out. I was the Alpha Male, being preened by his loyal progeny. I was the Patriarch, Grand Ruler of the Territory, the Master of the Realm, the Lord of the Manor, the King with his Princes. I have never felt so honored, so revered. For an old primate, it just doesn’t get any better than that.

Diana was less thrilled. She was not born into gentility by any means. No Blue Blood, she. But being surrounded day in and day out by three farting, belching, grunting, butt-scratching males is apparently not what she had in mind at the altar. It has taken its toll over time and dulled her sense of humor somewhat. The fact that her bed was being used as a tick staging area put her over the top. She could not be consoled. Even when we said it was her turn next. I swear, women are a puzzlement to me.

The way I figure it, one accepts honor where one finds it. If it evolves from the lowly, misbegotten tick, I say, so be it.