Tickpocalypse: Tales from a Dog Walker

Let me tell you about the day I almost quit dog walking to become a barista. Or a hermit. Honestly, anything that didn't involve ticks.

It was a perfect morning - blue skies, birds singing, the whole Disney-movie vibe.

We hit the trails, and the dogs were in heaven - sniffing, running, occasionally stopping to debate the best place to pee. I was feeling good. Confident. Professional.

Enter: The Ticks.

Ticks. Tiny, soulless hitchhikers. Dozens of them.

Panic Level: “Texting every dog owner ‘I’m sorry I failed you.’”

I spent the next 30 minutes doing a full inspection of each dog like I was in the world’s worst episode of Animal Planet. I pulled off ticks, flung them into the woods, and gave myself about 47 imaginary bites in the process. At one point, I was just spinning in circles, flailing my arms and whispering “I feel them on me”, like a haunted Victorian ghost.

By the time I got home, I had removed 18 ticks, lost one sock, and discovered a real tick crawling up my inner thigh!

Anyway, I’m still walking dogs. But now I carry industrial-strength bug spray, and give side-eye to every blade of grass.

Because in this job, it’s not if you meet ticks - it’s when.

Tick trauma support group meets Tuesdays.