Moving to Antarctica. Bye!
I dispise ticks. My dad loved the great outdoors, and when I was a child I was dragged off to go fishing or camping every summer until I was old enough to say, “No thanks. I’m good.”
When I was three I almost drowned after our canoe capsized on a foggy lake, instilling in me a substantial fear of being out on the water.
When I was four, after one camping trip I ended up with a tick embedded in my nethers. A spot where a guy would REALLY not like to have a parasite attached. This was in the early ‘70s. The doctor my mom took me to used some medical pliers and yanked it out while I screamed. Luckily the head didn’t pop off, as they tend to do when you yank out a tick.
Ticks. Nature. Bah!
And of course as an import, there’s not likely to be any awesome weird protective bit of evolution like there is with western fence lizards and lyme disease:
and for the more science inclined (sorry, only abstract):
Well, obviously it’s time to introduce a species to eat all the ticks. I mean, what could possibly go wrong.
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