Lynn picked a deer tick off me yesterday, a tiny dark one the size of a pinprick in the corner of my eye. I didn't even notice it. I spend a lot less time in front of a mirror than I used to, since it's become so much less rewarding, watching the wrinkles, sags, bags and blotches advance. The person I see staring back is my father.

It wasn't engorged so it apparently hadn't had time to drink. If you send it away to the state lab, they'll identify it for you, but they can't tell if it's carrying Lyme. So there's nothing to do but keep an eye on the wound, such as it is, for signs of the telltale bullseye rash. God, that's just what I need... . But if you get on it right away, they can generally ward off Lyme with antibiotics. Good thing Lynn has the habit of grooming all her men, young and old, like the good mother primate that she is. She doesn't eat what she finds however. Ticks go into the woodstove or down the toilet, or one of the boys will splatter them on the deck railing.

We've been having a rash of ticks around here this spring, picking them off the dogs and cats in record numbers. Generally the fall is tick season, but we had such a mild winter here along the coast of Maine, no subzero weather at all, that they all survived. Yet another of the manifold blessings of global warming.