LYME HOUSE BLUES

         When the stigmata first appeared on my right thigh last Friday, I assumed that it was God's way of telling me I had eaten too much seafood the night before. Mussels I cannot digest, and an excess of crab sometimes brings hives, so it seemed very possible that overdosing on shrimp brought about this mark that I found when drying myself after showering. I applied some rubbing alcohol to dry out the blemish and thought no more about it. I was rewarded; for two days it did not hurt, itch or look worse.

         Late Sunday afternoon I began to reconsider my dietary habits when something on the back of my right upper arm began to make its presence known. It was a chilly day; a tee shirt, short-sleeved shirt and sweatshirt covered my torso, but through all this raiment an itch, no, make that a pain, could be felt. Was this the revenge of Saturday night’s rebaked potatoes? I doubted that. There were too many clothes to take off to have an inspection, but a feel of the area left the impression it was a bite of some type.

         Come bedtime the clothes came off and I found the area inflamed with a dark red mark in the center. I grabbed the rubbing alcohol and applied it liberally, but on getting in bed I could still feel the pain. It was back to the bathroom and its bright light above the mirror. Holding my arm up and bending it close to the glass, I began to poke the red spot with my left hand, and then in a manner immortalized by my late wife, I began to pick at it.

         "EEEgads! It's alive!" I grabbed with my fingernail and tugged. It would not let go easily, but at last I held it in my left hand. It was a TICK, probably smirking that it had found a warm host in which to reside for the coming winter. How nice! I saw its little feelers in its head, or I guess that was its head. I had been becoming very acquainted with Acarida Argasidae lately. My version of man's best friend had been running a shuttle bus to bring the dear little things into the house, where I had been plucking them off her and depositing them into the toilet. I applied Tick joy juice to the back of her neck and that seemed to have stopped the invasion, until now.

         "Into the toilet with you, blood sucking arachnid!" One flush and it was gone. My eye traveled down my leg to Friday's mark. Some more probing and another visitor joined his friend in the hopper. I applied peroxide, alcohol and then an ointment called Bactoban to the wounds and headed back to bed. There in the hallway, another hunter was greeting an early arrival for winter.

         Tail swishing, killer cat was on patrol in front of the breakfront. Every so often she would reach under it and pull out the dust of the ages, but no mouse. I spotted the little fella, with pretty black eyes, peering out the end at one point. I went to get the broom. The mouse must have read my mind for when I came back it had gone back under the cabinet. 'Enough of this, time for sleep,' I thought.

         As I lay me down to sleep, I remembered Friday morning coming home from Pam's house and the seafood feast, and finding my bed had been used. Man's best friend and killer cat had spent the night in it. The cover that was supposed to protect it from wet dog paws had been pushed off; the quilts pulled back and the bed slept in. At that time I began to wonder if they had rented it out, or perhaps Goldielocks was about, but when the memory came back on this night, I began to put tick and tick together. Had someone spent that night depositing her little friends in my bed to await their new host? I became aware of every odd feeling in the sheets.

         This would not do. I turned on the light, stripped the sheets off the bed and remade it anew with fresh linen. I made a memo to myself to wash all the quilts and blankets in the morning. When the meow master came in to see what I was doing, I yelled at her to get back to her hunting and swore a few good oaths at the tick carrier who was sleeping on the couch, undoubtedly loading that piece of furniture with nasty surprises. As I lay down again, I caught sight of the cat chasing the mouse into my office, where the rodent will undoubtedly misfile itself. Exhausted, I went to sleep.

         Morning came, as it usually does. I couldn't find any new tick attacks, neither did I find a dead mouse signed, sealed and delivered for my approval. I fed the cat nonetheless, and let the dog out to roll on the grass and fill her fur with more party animals. Then off I went to the doctor. His nurse asked, "Did you bring the tick with you?" I wanted to make a smart answer about not having health insurance for it, but resisted. Both she and he did agree that my arm was inflamed. He didn't douse me with "Frontline," or have me dipped, but did suggest some other stuff that only melted mosquito netting when he took it on a outdoor trip.

         My next stop was the pharmacy. For the next month I shall have these large green capsules to swallow twice a day. I came home, messaged Pam that I would survive and then began to tote the bed coverings down to the washer in the cellar. Up and down the steps I labored, but my heart was light. I broke into song. Please don’t groan. “I’ve got you under my skin.”

Valatie, October 21, 2002