Wood Tick

A tiny black wood tick jumps from the tall grass onto my ankle, past my sock, and Crawls up stealthily and silently up my left leg. Luckily, my leg is super sensitive to its little feet. The leg brain alerts the aware brain, and I look down, spying her instantly. I catch her on her way up, squash her into the center of a tissue, and toss her into the garbage can. I feel smug, that I got her before she could latch on, burying her head inside my skin. I am the victor, here. The champ. The detective. The one who did not get bit. I wish my scalp And my back Were half as sensitive as my legs. They have let me down time and time again this summer, allowing these annoying critters free reign on their tasty free range. And what help is my husband? I don't LIKE wood ticks, he whines. And he thinks I do?