“Luke has a tick.” I state with panic, as though another head has grown from his neck, then stiffen my hold on him. “I’m okay with rough love, Momma, but this is starting to feel awkward.” 

I don’t want to lose sight of the blood sucker, who may realize that he (or she?) has been caught. A tick’s gender (I later learned) is indicated by its scutum. Male ticks have a scutum that covers most of their back, and a female tick has a white halo on its half scutum. However interesting, this one needs to go.  I part Luke’s fur and gag. My least favorite antagonist is shaped like a sunflower seed, its head burrowed in the meat on the back of Luke’s neck. One might think that by now (eight dogs in) the sight would be casual. My father used to pull bloated ticks off our dogs using a pair of pliers. He’d drop the pea-sized gluttons into a bucket of kerosene. 

“Hurry. Go find the scooper!” A tick sighting still rattles me. I command my husband to fetch our cherished de-ticking tool, a small spoon with a sharp wedge cut out at the top, and one forever missing when we need it the most. 

“Where did you put it last?” His question feels counterintuitive. “If I knew where it was, then it wouldn’t be misplaced, right?” Luke maneuvers like a breakdancer while struggling to free his head from my hold. “I don’t know what’s happening here, but I just want to sniff the floor again.” 

A tick once attached to the skin on Luke’s throat. He was still a puppy, only six months old. That very parasite caused repeated (and irritable) scratching and, likely, the positive trace of Lyme disease found on a subsequent blood test. More testing indicated that he is asymptomatic and will be just fine, especially with the aid of a monthly pill. He could even end up testing negative the next time, according to the vet’s diagnosis. Nevertheless …

The surgery begins without a moment to spare. Daddy (having located the spoon) covers the tick’s body and pulls it slow enough to force it to detach from Luke’s skin. “Almost done, Lukey.” I rub his belly for emotional support. I do believe that, on some level, dogs sense and trust the firmness of our care. They know that we are looking out for them. How could we not? I once scraped my knee and, weeks later, a barely visible scar held the scent of blood. Luke sniffed the wound and began licking the area. “Smells like an abrasion, Momma. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”

“FREEDOM!” Nothing spells RELIEF quite the way an extracted tick does. Luke races to his toybox, pulls out his stuffed lamb, and prances about the kitchen; proud of himself for enduring a mysterious ordeal. “Something caused parental tension. But what? I was so worried they’d never let me go, but I got myself out of that headlock, alright.” His enthusiasm is liberating. It appears we’ve all been freed from the tick’s hold. I wash my hands. Luke thrashes about the kitchen and celebrates the joy that is Living with Luke. 

Meanwhile, the tick scrambles to find a way out of the spoon’s dome.  

“Burn him alive.” I take a random shot at the tick’s gender and watch Luke chew on another stuffed toy. His red chili pepper squeals with joy. Then I imagine him at the shore of a lake, unable to swim due to joint pain. He breathes in the aroma of fresh water and looks away. “I used to love to swim. That was then.” He turns in a circle and lies down. “I’m discouraged.”

“I’ll get the lighter.” This leech needs to pay. 

The flame pops to life. The tick senses its heat, and scrambles up the spoon’s dome with homely, curly feelers then slides back down, unsuccessful. I turn away. My soft heart stills. I’m disappointed with the tick, yet I cannot watch the execution. The tick was just being a tick. Parasites feed off the life of another. Such is what’s meant to be. 

“Buh bye.” Nonetheless, the flush of the toilet resounds like the roar of a lion, and the burned corpse spins away in no time. I scratch my scalp. Is that a pimple or a tick? 

“I think I have a tick!” I’ve gone mad.

Luke trots into the bathroom. “What’s going on in here? He grabs a sock from the laundry basket. I open his mouth and grab it back. He smiles and lifts a paw for me to hold. “Love you, Momma.” The two of us share a moment. I hug his big head and plant a kiss on his snout. He smells faintly of aloe from a recent backyard bath. He leans into my chest. The struggle of being a dog parent is real. We do not want to see our dogs in pain and will do anything to prevent it. Those who rescue dogs understand the concept viscerally. Something about a dog abused, malnourished, or sick sends fire through our veins, even though we know that pain is a part of life. We endure struggle like a champ. Yet the threat of a creature the size of a seed (or pea) is too much to bear. Why is that?

I sit cross-legged on the bathroom floor. Luke rests his head on my lap. His loyalty is unrivaled, yet one dog-quality stands out above the rest. 

A dog is innocent. Luke would not hurt another living creature, unless doing so meant to protect, defend or survive. He doesn’t possess the ego, pride or sinfulness of a human. He’s not vindictive, selfish or malicious by nature. He’s born with simplicity—to love and be loved. 

“Love you, Lukey.” He licks my chin and reminds me of how much I need him, just as much as he does me. We’ll both go great lengths to protect each other. Man may be a dog’s best friend, but Mom will always have his back.

Write to Amy:

[email protected]

Visit Luke:

livingwithlukevalentino@IG