Cait says from the backseat of the car, “Mom, there’s a tick on your shirt.”

Just having gotten into the car after a family hike through the woods, I get back out, find the tick (it’s a deer tick of course), and pick it off. Climbing back into the car, I say to Andrew, “Can’t blame that tick on the dogs.”

Andrew, who’s just contracted Lyme disease again from a tick he believes he picked up from one of the dogs, says only half jokingly, “Give me a minute. I’ll think of a way.”

Time to move to New Zealand — land of no ticks.

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