A healthy dose of consequences...

I'm a grown up. I know how the world works. More specifically, I know what can happen when certain things slip one's mind. Say, a woman forgets to take her little pill. You know. That one. And nine months later she's bringing a new human into this wacky world. Or I could misplace my asthma inhaler and, after a particularly vigorous workout, wheeze myself into unconsiousness. Or I might forget to take my lithium, throw off my medication levels and end up riding a manic high -- pulling all-nighters, driving recklessly and fighting the urge to make passes at every man with a pulse (and no matter how exotic that sounds, it's not in any way a bit healthy).

I understand consequences. Managing meds is not something to take lightly. I was reminded of that earlier this week. Granted, the situation wasn't quite as serious as the above scenarios. But it did involve blood-sucking creatures invading my home. I did have some cause for distress.

We forgot to give our dog her monthly medication, Frontline Plus, for fleas and ticks. I didn't realize this until we found several ticks attached to her skin, feasting away on her body like little Draculas at a vampire convention. So we carefully plucked them off (ok, Tim did it...I had nothing to do with it, except hold Maggie and squirm and yell "ewwww" with my eyes shut) and quickly applied the liquid drug as directed to the skin on her upper back. I thought, ah, voila, problem solved.

Wrong-o. Every time she went outside and came back in, along came more of these parasitic hitchhikers. Sucking themselves into blood-bloated oblivion. More picking on our part (er, Tim's part...he kept looking at me as if to say, "Hey, your turn," and I shot the "No way in hell I'm touching it" look right back). A bit of Internet research and a call to the vet relayed the bad news: it'd take about 48 hours to be completely protected, so that when the little suckers bit, they'd die and fall off without delay. In a three-day period, we picked at least 15 ticks off her head, ears and undercarriage.

Any way I look at it, it's bad. Either she's got the live ones hanging on to her, or falling off her into our couch or bed or carpeting to make us their next meal. Or she's got dead ones, tangled up in her fur or falling off into our couch or bed or carpeting. I've heard it's an especially bad year for ticks. I'm envisioning layers of tick carcasses, crunching under my feet when I walk. Pardon me while I go heave my guts...

So we could all get Lyme disease. Or Rocky Mountain spotted fever. Or even meningitis. Or something called tularemia, and I don't know what it is but it sounds simply dreadful, doesn't it? Even worse than that, it's just creepy as all get-out to think of eight-legged arachnids (yep, they're in the same family with spiders...more of my Internet education at work) crawling around on me or dead in my bedcovers.

Maggie's medication dates are now posted on my computer calendar. In bold letters. With reminder alarms set. A day in advance.

I don't need such surprises in my life anymore. And I'm guessing Mags would rather not be the equivalent of a burger-fries-and-Coke-to-Go to crawly creatures.

It's fitting that tick rhymes with ICK.