Fleas and Ticks Jump Everywhere

Never did I expect to be one who de-ticks dogs with ungloved fingers.

I’ve always been the squeamish of the squeam when it comes to creepy crawlies. Well into my twenties, I still cannot kill bugs mainly because the thought of getting that close and feeling their body crushed beneath my fingers makes me flap my hands and fake-gag.

However, I must say that I’m cohabitating with insects better now than at any previous point in my life. (My boyfriend, Mike, doesn’t fully appreciate this fact, never having known me before.)

But now I have two dogs that spend most of their time outdoors. And, as you may have guessed by now, they’ve acquired ticks. And when I say they’ve acquired ticks, I mean that we have a tick infestation. They have ticks between their toes, ticks in their ear folds, ticks on their eyelids, ticks in their armpits, and most concerningly, ticks on their bungholes.

We have ticks on the walls, ticks on our sheets, ticks on our bedroom floor, and ticks in the laundry hamper.

I bemoaned the ticks for a few days, trying unsuccessfully to inspire Mike to take some time out of his legitimately busy schedule to help me exterminate the problem.

I even found ticks crawling up my legs, an event that didn’t phase him in the least. I think, upon complaining, he absently said something along the lines of, “That’s gross, baby.”

And then one evening while lying in bed, Mike discovered a tick crawling on him. Suddenly, he felt boldly determined to fix the tick problem once and for all, declaring,

“We have to figure out this tick problem. Like tomorrow. We can’t live like this. Yuck Ash, this is gross.” He shuddered, as if he had to convince me of something I didn’t already know.

Now, I have been picking at the ticks since their arrival. My ape-like fascination with ridding unwanted items from the body is beneficial in this situation. Ticks, hair follicles, blackheads, ear wax— I easily become obsessed with removal.

But the ticks are thick and getting thicker. Mere picking will not solve this problem.

Spraying does little good, especially since Harley flees from the blue bottle of tick killer. Tweezers work quite well if I catch the dogs while they’re relaxed. I am truly a plucking pro. But mostly the tweezers just make the dogs understandably nervous and squirmy, creating a two-person task out of the deal. Plus, it’s harder to tell the difference between a blood-pregnant tick and a dog- nipple when using a tweezers. I only had to make this unfortunate mistake once…

So, I’ve gotten to the point where if the dogs are near, I’ll pull ticks off with my fingers. I’ll even keep two or three pinched between my index and middle finger until I can walk over to the tick bowl of torture and flick them inside to be squirted with the blue bottle. They can’t avoid my aim, and I can’t hear any cries of misery as they drown in poison.

I’ve observed some interesting things about ticks. For instance, the gray prune-like ones, grotesquely plump with blood, will sink to the bottom of the toilet when thrown into the bowl. But the small black ones will swim nimbly to the water’s edge and climb out if you don’t flush quickly enough. They’re resilient little bastards.

And it’s funny how ticks make fleas seem so benign. When I first arrived on island, I was devastated when Harley caught fleas from a stray dog that hung around for awhile. But since the tick infestation, I barely even notice the fleas. If someone points them out to me, I’ll likely respond, “Oh, it’s just a flea. It won’t hurt anything.”

That I can pick ticks off the dogs and walls with my fingers and hold onto them until discarding in the next room shows the severity of the problem, but more importantly, it shows growth on my part.

A few nights ago Mike and I sat at the dinner table. We were pretty much done eating and sort of lulling about before we went on being productive again. Harley approached, as he often does, and I noticed a fat, juicy tick on his back. I attacked it with zest, easily plucking it off his body.

“Ashley, that’s gross.”

I held up the tick between my fingers, filled to blue plumpness with Harley’s blood. Its legs, which looked comically small and worthless, especially compared to their strength and ability in an un-saturated tick, wriggled about helplessly.

“It reminds me of the blueberry girl from Willy Wonka,” I said, amused.

“Ashley, that’s disgusting,” Mike said with no small amount of revulsion. “You don’t pick ticks at the dinner table! Yuck. I guess I’m done eating tonight.”

And then he performed the same bit of facial drama I’ve always displayed in the presence of bugs.

He fake-gagged.

This, my friends, was a first. I never before have grossed-out another individual by my handling of an insect or any such small and wiggly inhabitant of this earth.

And yes, in my world, this is definitely growth.

A Teeny-Tiny Rock with Lots and Lots of Guns

Five people died as a result of gunshot wounds in the USVI last week.
Four on St. Thomas. One on St. Croix. 

There have been around 15 homicides in the VI so far this year.
Allow me to remind you that the year has just begun.
Average = 2 homicides/week.

Also allow me to remind you that the island of St. Thomas is 13 miles long and 4 miles wide. Its area in square miles is roughly half the size of Minneapolis proper.
We are a mere speck in the ocean.
A speck with around 55,000 human inhabitants.
Inhabitants who have, of late, been increasingly violent and gun-laden.

The week's first death occured when a toddler, the son of a cop, shot himself playing with daddy's gun.

The third person that died was the sister of my co-worker's brother. Two weeks ago, she was in the coffee shop with her kids. Only 25-years-old. Younger than me. Her boyfriend has been arrested for owning the unlicensed gun, and is a suspect in the death, the exact cause of which- accidental or planned- has yet to be officially determined.

We have one of the highest murder per capita rates in the world.

That's all. No soapbox. No musing. I simply thought it necessary to share this major problem in paradise.

Ignoring Fashion Rules: An Unexpected Consequence

I’m running late for work. This is typical. Although I left a full thirty minutes before I start, stopping for just a minute at the store. Still, I’m running desperately late. I forgot that traffic is much heavier at 8am than at 6:30 when I usually commute. Also, it’s Tuesday and the massive Oasis of the Seas is in port, along with four other ships, so pretty much everyone who works downtown in the tourist biz is here today.

Free parking is gone. Oh well. I expected that. When I chose to sleep an extra thirty minutes, I opted to pay $5 dollars for parking. What can I say? Sleep is precious in my world.

With the volume of traffic in town, it almost feels like driving in a major city again, and I'm pleasantly surprised when the LOT FULL sign is missing from the entryway to the parking lot.

Walking out of the lot, I pass a bum of sorts sitting next to the small gap in the fence that serves as an exit. I’m absorbed in my thoughts and offer no salutation. Before I can walk completely past, he says,

“Good Morning to you too,” sounding miffed.

“Morning,” I respond absently, without breaking pace.

While still in earshot, I hear him comment to his crony on my pairing black shorts with a brown purse.

Seriously, yo.

A Caribbean bum dissing me for ignoring an age-old fashion rule?

Whiskey Tango Foxtrot?!

The funny thing is, only since I’ve lived in the V.I. would I even dream of ignoring this fashion rule. I used to run late for work specifically because I couldn’t find my brown belt when sporting an earth-toned ensemble.

I must tell you, I’m far more amused than offended.

Sanded In

So it’s my day off, and I’m heading to the beach with Beth, the friend, and Hershey, the dog. We are at Hull Bay, one of the only dog-friendly beaches on island. It looks busy for a Thursday, and there are no obvious parking spots. I drive to the end of the beach before I find a space that looks easy and empty. But as soon as I pull onto the sand, I suspect we may be in trouble. The ridge between the road and the beach is further than I expected, which I worry will keep me from backing out, especially since sand doesn’t offer much in the way of traction.

No sooner do I exit my car than a pretty blonde mom in a white pickup stops on the road and says, sounding concerned, “Oooh, that’s the stuck spot.”

“I had a feeling …” I say.

“You’ll be okay,” she says unconvincingly, “Just think positive.”

“Just think positively,” I correct her grammar in my head.

“We’ll be fine,” Beth says, heading down the beach to find a landing spot.

I guess we’ll worry about it later.

Later comes, and we discover that, sure enough, the car’s going nowhere. My tires spin uselessly, only digging deeper into the sand. It’s quite similar to being stuck in an icy Minnesota snow bank, except it’s not dangerously cold outside, and I’m facing the ocean. Damn, why did I leave behind the small shovel that lived in my trunk expressly for these moments? I guess I figured it wouldn't be needed in the tropics.

Fortunately, after it becomes obvious that we’re stuck, it takes only a couple minutes for multiple men to offer assistance. Hands-on Beth jumps in to problem-solve too. I always feel useless in these situations, being dimwitted when it comes to manipulating matter. Especially matter that is heavy in nature.

It's determined that we must place something under the front tires for traction enough to get us over the cement ledge between the sand and the road.

A Dude-like character approaches and tells us we're not going anywhere without a four-wheel drive vehicle pulling us out first. I tend to agree with him, but everyone wants to try without it first. I dig the jack out of the trunk, and we use it to lift the front frame. Then we place some rocks under the tires and lay boards on top of them for traction. (The boards are conveniently there, probably left over from previous stuck incidents.)

Of course, none of this is my idea.

We finish this task, and The Dude re-approaches,

“I got a truck coming.”

(From where did these helpful souls come?!)

The truck somehow attaches itself by rope to my car's posterior in a manner they promise will not rip off the bumper. With the truck pulling and five of us pushing and Beth behind the wheel, we get the car out of the sand and onto the road.

Beth lays on the horn when the car starts to move. A celebratory, elephantine burst of cheer, I assume, but she later tells me that her hand, in fact, was on the horn accidentally. Anyhow, it works in the moment.

“Good karma points to you all,” I say. “Thank you so much.”

And we gone.

These are good people here.
I am blessed.

Where Where Where Would You Poo?

If you were homeless, that is.

I saw something on Sunday morning that sullied my wholesome Midwest sensibilities. Something that got me thinking about this very question.

I was feeling particularly grateful on this, the second beautiful weekend morn, that I didn’t have to stay inside and work. I had enjoyed coffee at the cyber cafe downtown and was walking up Government Hill to visit Beth at the Galleon House, where she works all weekend as the front desk manager. The job allows her to hang with friends on the verandah overlooking historic downtown Charlotte Amalie. And do fun things like cook vegan dishes and make beaded jewelry.

While climbing 99 Steps, I notice a homeless woman who has, of late, been living in the hillside park within the circular drive on Government Hill. She is stationed on the upper part of the park, relatively close to the road that serves as a driveway for local restaurants, lodgings, and attractions, not to mention the Office of the Governor. She appears to be crouching. It looks rather like a bathroom squat to me, but I don’t think it possible.

I continue up the steps, trying not to stare. But naturally, I can’t help but glance in her direction the closer I get to the top. I am compelled, however disgustingly, to decipher what exactly she is doing. To disprove my suspicions, I hope.

But yes. It certainly seems like she is positioned in a bathroom squat. When I get behind her, I confirm that her pants are, indeed, down and she seems ready to wipe her ass with what looks like paper, and not of the toilet variety.

Oh my. I just witnessed a homeless woman shitting in the park before noon on a Sunday.

I share this with Beth and she seems far less surprised. Perhaps she’s seen more grit than me. (Although, I must add that two of my St. Thomian co-workers assured me they had never seen someone poo in public.)

“I don’t know, Beth,” I say. “Don’t you think she could at least wait until the sun goes down?”

“Could you wait until the sun goes down?”

She had a point.
When you have to go. You have to go.

But I’m privileged to be choosy about where I void my bowels. I used to drive twenty minutes home from work during my lunch hour for the mere comfort of shitting in my own home.

I’ve never before pondered the bathroom habits of the homeless. Does it create anxiety? It certainly would for me.

What has brought this lady to the point of pulling down her britches and squatting in the park under the midday sun, while not even bothering to hide behind a tree? It seems to me, from this and other observations, that she suffers from a debilitating mental illness and lacks access to the medication and resources necessary to keep her functioning more normally. This, of course, is the unfortunate cause behind many instances of homelessness in America.

Knowing this, I still can't help feeling repulsed, but her condition is also heartbreaking.

Thoughts, anyone?

Where would you poo?