Dammit, Chad. IYKYK.
This weekend at the cabin, Chad wanted to show me some of our land and said the trails had been cleared. Now, when Chad says “clear,” he means Chad’s definition of clear—not Justine’s. My famous last words? “If I find 20 ticks, this little adventure was worth it. If I find 21, it wasn’t.”
Less than ten minutes later, we discovered we were all crawling with hundreds of seed ticks—dogs included.
To say we’ve been in tick hell for the last couple of days is an understatement.
So this morning, when I left for my weekly shift at Wild Bird Rehabilitation, I wore my Dammit Chad t-shirt. Because, obviously, this is all his fault (and actually everything is, IYKYK 
But wait—the story gets better.
We have a fledgling robin at Wild Bird Rehab that is bald. Like, totally not even one tuft of feather on his head bald. It’s a genetic thing. So, of course, I named him Chad.
Except, just like in real life, Chad got the last word. Because as I was weighing those robins, they all pooped everywhere. And the Chad robin? Well, he pooped right on my Dammit, Chad t-shirt.
Dammit Chad!
Blaming won’t get us anywhere, even if it is hilarious.
I hope you have a Chad in your life, because he’s the best.