He held her leg in one hand and the tweezers in the other and got a good firm hold on the tick's bulbous abdomen. He twisted slightly and pulled - righty tighty, lefty loosey - but the tick was more stubborn than the ones he has pulled out of his dog. He gave it a good tug. It came free with a sort of screaming sound, right on the edge of hearing. He held it up to the light so that they could both take a good look at it. It seemed to have tiny fists, and was waving them in the air, like a small, pissed-up Irishman.
And the tick spoke.
'Pauper's Faith will win the 3.15 at Redcar.' The voice sounded like a knife being sharpened.
Then it died.
He began to search the rest of her body, gently and lovingly.
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