tick fever

Clear Creek Canyon links Denver's never-say-plan sprawl with the never-say-never pipe dream of Gilpin County's legalized gambling. Tour buses roar west towards the cacophony of slot machines. $3.99 all you can eat prime rib buffets lure the malnourished. It's not all bad, though. The saving grace of the canyon is the sport climbing found on its walls.

I spent the weekend climbing in Clear Creek, and was introduced to an organism even more numerous than the gamblers - ticks.

On Saturday, I was belaying a friend when I felt the unmistakable sensation of something crawling up my leg. The first tick of the season was making his way for the warmth and blood supply of my crotch. For this little act of treachery, he was summarily smashed between two stones.
Now on the lookout, I began to see more of these little demons. One more on my shirt sleeve. And another on a pant leg. When all was said and done, I was patting my legs and arms like some Balinese monkey hunter, thinking that each hair follicle disturbed by the rustling of the wind would surely deliver Lyme Disease or Rocky Mountain Tick Fever in a matter of hours.

(Editor's note: Lyme Disease is an East coast thing, and Pat is a total bug-o-phobe. Just because he killed a black widow in his sleep once, don't let him tell you that he is above his terror.)

In the unflinching company of a full length mirror, I danced naked until we were both convinced that I didn't bring any unwanted guests home for the evening. Content in the knowledge that nothing would drink my blood that night, I headed to bed thinking about a return trip the next day to link the moves on the route and tick it off in my guidebook, as they say.
Sunday saw me back at the wall, roping up under the same route. As several other climbers passed, I issued a warning.
"Just to let you know, I was here yesterday and I pulled off about 4 ticks."
Convinced that I was the "Asshole of the Week," they looked at each other in total disgust.
"I don't care what routes you did yesterday."
Realizing the miscommunication, I explained that I was talking about disease carrying parasites, not another word for "send," or "redpoint." We all had a good laugh, wondering who in the world would possibly be so lame as to announce to a total stranger their day old successes on the local choss.

I could deal with some strangers taking me for a loudmouthed chump. They might be onto something. What I couldn't deal with, however, was another tick attack of the 6 leg variety. By the end of our time climbing on the second day, I had pulled another 3 ticks off of my legs. I was beginning to feel like a chimp with all of my nervous grooming.

At this point, we had had enough of the infestation, and headed home. I was in the neighborhood, and decided to swing by my parents' house in Golden and hang out with their dog. Clarence and I had a grand old time watching me do the naked mirror dance again, and I was thankful that the folks were out of the house. That's kind of a one man (plus one canine companion) type of show. Satisfied that I was tick free, I thought I'd give the mutt some exercise.

Here is where things really go to hell.

Clarence was enormously excited when I chucked his boomerang toy across the cul-du-sac for him to chase. He'd race across the yards to grab it, and then come bounding back to fetch it again. I'd congratulate him with shouts of "good boy" and scratches behind the ears, but this wasn't quite enough to satisfy him. Clarence rolled over, mutely demanding his belly be scratched.

Mind you, I had just spent the previous two days being swarmed by ticks.

What should I see when Clarence kicked his legs in the air? That's right, a little spot that sure looked like a buried bug. With a little closer inspection, I saw another spot, although this time right on his penis. Great. I decided right then and there that I wouldn't be using my hands to pry those suckers loose.
My father is quite the fly fisherman, and as such, has any number to helpful tools in the house. Forceps are great for this kind of thing, so I grabbed a pair from his tackle box and headed back to the front yard where the dog was still panting after his wind sprints.
I gave Clarence one of those "this is going to hurt you a lot more than me" speeches, and rolled him onto his back. I thought it would likely be best to get my sea-legs under me, so I started with the one I saw on his belly. I grabbed ahold of that spot, and the forceps clamped down. Just then, I realized this looked just a little off. I'm no doggy dermatologist, but the resemblance to a mole, especially given the dearth of visible legs, was uncanny.
Clarence was still on his back, and I squinted, leaning in for a closer look. The jury was out on the nature of these spots, and I'd rather wait until Pops got home before doing anything rash, especially involving a penis that wasn't mine.

Unfortunately, someone else arrived on the scene first.

A neighbor stumbled upon Clarence and me while walking down the street, likely scarring her for life. Here I was, holding down a puppy, prodding its genitals with some sort of metal pliers. Further, my face was mere inches away from said prodded genitals. I tried to call out, but no words could fix this perceived animal abuse. I might be banned from the Mesa Meadows subdivision at the next homeowners meeting.

Mistaken Labrador fellatio makes Saturday's Asshole of the Week confusion seem pretty tame.