I could feel the violence, right to my core.
I’d pulled a tick off my “tick-magnet,” Belle. It was just strolling atop her minklike coat. I’d been cleaning my glasses, already had a tissue in my hand, so pulled it off with that. Its tiny legs quested. I folded the tissue and squished it.
Hard. Because I know ticks are really difficult to squish. I pressed even harder as I walked into the bathroom. I wanted it truly dead, not just wounded — and then, as I flushed it, have it suffer being drowned.
Does this sound funny to you? I mean, not like a clown — but ridiculous-funny?
I know it was a tick — an arachnid and a vector of disease. And, — bottom line — it was posing a threat to my dog. But it was a life.
I ended it.
One minute it was blithely walking around, perhaps preparing for a bite to eat. (Just following nature’s course for it) . The next minute, it’s entire world is a miasma of pain and violence.
I could not not think that. Feel that, rather. A roil of nightmare.
So I wrote it down. Maybe it’ll help me not think.
Or maybe I’ll think more.
I have two passions: animals and words. And I have managed to spend most of my life combining those two lvoes, using words to create awareness, to touch hearts, to help alleviate suffering, and to just make the world a kinder kind of place fdor all living things. I spent more than 30 years as a jo0urnalist at The Bergen Record newspaper, and have t a lifetime een using the power of words to XXX