So, these two ticks walk into this bar, and one tick says to the bartender, "You ever been through three cycles in a washing machine?" And the other tick says, "Make sure you avoid it. It's not as much fun as it looks."

OK, it's a joke, but this is the true dark story. It begins like this.

For some time I have become, due to media pressure, terrified of Lyme ticks lurking in the vicinity of my African daisies and unsuspecting petunias. I knew they were out there, howling in the way ticks howl, like nature's tiny banshees. What could Noah have been thinking, to allow two of them in steerage?

I never for a moment supposed they would find their way into my personal life. I had followed all precautions when walking in the yard, Ralph Lauren cuffs tucked into my New Balance sneakers (product placement soothes me), sleeves rolled down, a mosquito net over my head. Yes, it's uncomfortable, but it works.

Then, two nights ago, I found one of them on the blue tile of my bathroom, lurking there as though waiting for a tick streetcar, waiting to sample my blood, a multilegged mini-Dracula.

Was it a coincidence that I was sitting there reading Daniel Defoe's "Journal of the Plague Year"?

With rubber gloves on, I quickly imprisoned it in an empty Tylenol vial to take and be identified by my dog's veterinarian.

Meanwhile, another tick was found in the bathroom on the tub. OMG. I joined them together in the container. In a moment of drollery, I named them Harry and Sally. Even a paranoid needs a laugh now and then.

After a quick stop to do my wife's laundry, I set out. Arriving at the vet, I found that I had lost the tick vial. Panic ensued.

Where had they gone to?

Were they in the carpets?

The laundry?

The coffee grounds?

I went home and discovered that I had dropped the vial in the washer. But they had survived, high and dry, after having gone through three rinses ensconced, as it were, in a mini Captain Nemo submarine.

Back at the vet's office, I presented them to one of the assistants.

"Those are not ticks," she said, peering over glasses. "They're beetles." I insisted on a second opinion, so she gave them to a doctor. He said they were baby beetles. He flashed his official tick-identification card that showed four stages of tickdom.

"I know these are ticks," I snorted.

Medical assistance came to a halt in the office as the doctor showed it to three other doctors and two more assistants. It was a unanimous decision. My ticks were indeed beetles. I was embarrassed. After all that the ticks, I mean beetles, and had gone through.

I was assured by licensed and educated professionals that my dog and I, not to mention she who sleeps beside me, were never in any danger of contracting Lyme disease, as beetles do not carry the disease.

Outside the vet's office, I dumped the ticks, I mean beetles, into the tall grass to rejoin nature and their fellow beetles. As I drove home, I could only wonder what the other beetles, mosquitoes, assorted ants and of course, malicious ticks, must have thought of Harry and Sally's excellent adventure.

J.P. Devine is a freelance writer

living in Waterville.