If I were a tick I would not jump or fly, I would only crawl. I would crawl through the mud and dirt, up blades of grass and shrubs, and I would anchor myself by my hind legs, waving my forelegs back and forth, alone, until you walk by. I would hitch a ride on your shoelaces and climb up your socks, through the cuffs of your jeans. I bet I would like the feel of your leg hairs against my face, if I had a face, as I ascend up your knees towards your thighs where I would latch. If I were a tick I would bury my mouthparts into your skin and feed.
There is no shortage of food for an obligate hematophage, as long as there is warm blood to drink. As a tick, I would not discriminate, and I would spend my life taking blood from as many animals as possible. In my larval state I would latch onto a field mouse, and zip around at high speeds, dropping off just before my mouse gets caught by a barn cat. After my blood-meal, I would molt and I would rest. I would sprout new legs and continue on my quest. Maybe I would latch onto the barn cat, and then the sheepdog, and then the sheep, repeating the cycle of feeding and molting and resting and feeding and molting resting until reaching my adult form.
As a tick, I would find my final host, and on their warm bed of flesh, I would mate, and then I would feed, engorging myself a final time, dropping my eggs, and dying.
Evolution is just an experiment. It’s a game Mother Earth plays with herself, trying out new combinations and observing which ones are the most effective for the survival of the species. Ticks have crawled along the surface of the earth in one form or another since the end of the Early Cretaceous Period. That’s over a hundred-million years of crawling and feeding in comparison to humankind’s measly three hundred thousand.
There’s no wonder why; besides never needing to worry about starvation, ticks are cooperative. There is no tick in-fighting, for ticks only have one goal in mind: produce more ticks.
Ticks have bodies more suited for survival, they are leathery and tough with backs made up of natural armor. They are small and hard to spot, and their bodies are squat and unsegmented and difficult to squish.
My body is comparatively large and vulnerable. I am made up of breakable bones and vulnerable organs plastic-wrapped in tearable skin. I buy my food at Trader Joe’s and if I ever run out of money, I will starve. There is no unity between me and my human-race compatriots, there is no shared goal, no common will to live. We fight and kill each other with no forethought for survival. We buy and sell and kick and thrash and move and rush and spill like oil on a counter.
Ticks do not have things or houses. When you are a tick nothing belongs to you except the blood in your gut. My life is overwhelmed with things; with pens and paper and knickknacks and gizmos. I have things from which I eat and things on which I sit. Things that I wear and things that I read. Like sand in a timer, they trickle in and fill my house and suffocate me. Here are clothes and books and toys, here are things I’ve bought and things I’ve been given, here are things I thought would make me happy, and here are things that didn’t. If I were a tick I would think the act of having to be ridiculous in itself. I would not read or wear or sit. Life as a parasite must be quite serene. To feed and fall and breed with no other thought or purpose. It seems like such a wonderful and lasting way to live, with no wonder and no guilt, only the knowledge that you must keep going until there is nowhere left to go.
The first time I got a tick I was almost twenty years old. It was nighttime and I was undressing to shower. She was resting on my shin, her beak planted in my skin, but not yet latched. She must have joined me on my daily walk. I cried when I saw her, I screamed too. I felt disgusted and violated. The idea of the tick hanging onto me, implanting part of herself into my skin made me feel less human. It made me feel like an animal, out of control of my own body. The thought lingered for the following week; the thought of the tick burrowing into my leg, hungry and flat.
Since then, I have picked dozens of other ticks off of my body, all flat and unlatched, and still I resent them for the life they have to live. I resent them for being born blood-hungry. I resent them for being so small and insignificant and still considering me a meal. If I am to be prey I would prefer my predator to at least be closer in size to me. It is humbling to think of myself getting taken advantage of by an animal so miniscule in comparison, and humbling still to think that with the power of a pathogen even smaller than the tick itself, I could be taken down completely. But the tick doesn’t want to kill me, it doesn’t want to spread diseases, it just wants my blood.
As a human I do not jump or fly, I only crawl. I crawl through dirt and mud, up sidewalks and mountain tops. I too am anchored by my hind legs, waving my arms back and forth in anticipation for something new to come. I ride on cars and buses, not shoelaces, but nevertheless I climb. I live to grow and rest and eat. I live to kill, I live to spread diseases. Like the ticks we bring down whole species without even trying. Humans are parasites too.
What truly separates us from the ticks? In 300,000 years I am not sure if there will be any more humans crawling around, but I can promise there will be ticks.
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