One thing nobody ever told me about moving Island Dog to the Caribbean is that I would be engaged in a constant battle against ticks. I doubt it would have stopped me from bringing her (she’s been my loyal companion for 10 years and a move to the tropics wasn’t going to change that), but I might have been better able to mentally prepare myself for the daily battle I was about to face.
Seriously. It is epic. And I mean epic in a “terrible, constant vigilance, never-let-your-guard-down-for-even-a-second” sort of way. I am weary just thinking about it.
And it really doesn’t help that she has a thick, double coat of long, glorious fur…just the sort of fur that ticks love to hop onto and burrow into.
I bathe her multiple times per week. I apply Advantix II more often than prescribed. And, now as a last resort, I have decided to napalm the garden with pesticides undoubtedly banned in the States. And this morning was the morning for the nuclear holocaust to begin.
So, two hours and one empty scull and crossbones bottle of insecticide later, Island Dog and I are holed up inside waiting for the poison to dry (and for my back to stop aching from all that hunching over to spray).
I think the next time a tourist mentions that I’m “living the dream,” I’m going to invite them over to bathe and de-tick my dog.