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I have rescued over four hundred animals in twenty two years. Dogs mostly. Some cats. A few goats. One horse that was standing in a collapsing barn with its ribs showing and flies on its eyes and I loaded it into a trailer in the dark because the owner was drunk on the porch and I did not ask permission. Every single animal that comes through my door gets dewormed on day one. Before the bath. Before the vet visit. Before anything else. The first thing I put in their mouth is a dewormer. Because an animal carrying a parasite load cannot heal. Cannot gain weight. Cannot absorb nutrients. Cannot get better. You have to clear what is inside them before anything else will work. I have known this for twenty two years. I have said it a thousand times to every volunteer and every foster family who has ever worked with me. "Deworm first. Everything else second." I said it about every dog. Every cat. Every goat. Every horse. I never once said it about myself. And the thing I have been clearing out of rescue animals for twenty two years is the same thing that has been living inside me for at least fifteen of them. My name is Linda. I am sixty nine years old. I run a small animal rescue out of my property in rural North Carolina. Three acres. A kennel building my late husband Ray built before he passed. A fenced yard. A barn with four stalls. On any given day I have between eight and fifteen animals on this property waiting for homes. I feed them. I medicate them. I clean up after them. I sleep with at least two of them in my bed because that is just what happens when you rescue animals. They find their way to your pillow and you let them because you are the first person who ever let them. I want to tell you about three of them. Because their stories are the reason I finally understood what was happening inside my own body. And their stories are the reason I know that what I found can help you too. Even if you have never rescued an animal in your life. Even if you just have a dog at home or a cat on your lap or grandchildren who play in the yard. Because parasites do not care who you are. They do not care if you are clean. They do not care if you live in a nice house. They care that you are warm and you eat food and you have a gut they can live in. That is all they need. Biscuit was the one who broke me open. I got the call on a Thursday night in January three years ago. A dog had been found under a porch in a foreclosed house. The family had moved out and left him. He had been under there for at least two weeks. Eating nothing. Drinking rainwater from a gutter. When I got there and crawled under that porch with a flashlight, what I saw made me sit in the dirt and cry. He was a beagle mix. Maybe thirty pounds. His ribs were showing through his skin like fingers under a blanket. His stomach was distended and hard. His eyes were dull. He did not growl. He did not move. He just looked at me like he had given up on the idea that anyone was coming. I wrapped him in my coat and carried him to the truck. At the kennel I dewormed him immediately. Standard protocol. And within forty eight hours that dog passed more worms than I had seen come out of any animal in twenty two years. Long ones. Short ones. Some of them still alive. His stomach had been distended not from bloating. From the sheer volume of what was living inside him. Within a week his stomach went flat. Within two weeks he was eating. Within a month he was running in the yard. Within three months he was a different dog. Bright eyes. Shiny coat. Healthy weight. He looked five years younger. The family that adopted him sends me pictures every Christmas. He is on their couch. Fat and happy. Clean. I saved Biscuit's life by clearing what was inside him. I did not think to do the same for myself. Mama Cat was the one who scared me. A feral cat showed up on my property pregnant. I trapped her. Brought her inside. She had her kittens in a box in my laundry room. Five of them. I dewormed Mama Cat three days after she delivered. Standard. What came out of her was alarming even by my standards. Roundworms. Tapeworm segments. The kittens had already been exposed through her milk. I dewormed the kittens at the earliest safe age. Every one of them had something. Here is the thing about cats that most people do not know. Cats carry Toxoplasma gondii. A microscopic parasite that does not just stay in the gut. It crosses into the bloodstream and forms cysts in the brain. In muscle tissue. It alters behavior. Over sixty million Americans carry Toxoplasma and most of them do not know it. Mama Cat slept on my bed for three weeks before I found her a home. Her kittens were in my laundry room for two months. I handled them every day. Cleaned the litter box with my bare hands more times than I should have because I was in a hurry and the gloves were in the other room. I did not think about what was transferring to me. Because in twenty two years of rescue work, I had been so focused on deworming the animals that I never once considered that the parasites I was clearing out of them were finding their way into me. Duke was the hardest. He was a German shepherd. About eight years old. His owner had died and the family did not want him. He had been living in the backyard for three months. Eating whatever he could find. Drinking from a puddle that collected under the air conditioning unit. When I picked him up he leaned against my leg and pressed his head into my hip and just stood there. He was too tired to wag his tail. Too tired to walk to my truck. I lifted eighty pounds of dog into the cab and he put his head on my lap and closed his eyes. Duke had a severe parasite load. Hookworms. Whipworms. Giardia. I treated him aggressively. It took three rounds over six weeks to fully clear him. Each round something came out. Each round he got a little better. By the end of the second month he was a different animal. He lived with me for four years. Slept in my bed. Ate from my kitchen floor when he knocked his bowl over, which was often. Licked my face every morning. Put his nose in every plate of food I set on the coffee table. Duke died last year at twelve. Natural causes. Old age. He had a good four years. But for four years I shared a bed and a kitchen and a life with a dog who had carried hookworms and whipworms and Giardia. And even after I cleared him, the eggs and the cysts from those organisms were in my house. In my bedding. On my floor. On my hands. On my face every morning when he licked me awake. I started getting sick around 54. The bloating. By evening my stomach would swell until I looked pregnant. I blamed it on the irregular meals. When you are running a rescue you eat when you can. Standing at the counter. In the truck between pickups. Whatever is fast. I figured my diet was the problem. My doctor said IBS. The tiredness. I used to do kennel chores at 5 AM and rescue runs at night and fill every hour in between. By 57 I was falling asleep in my chair at 2 in the afternoon with a dog on my lap and waking up at 4 not knowing where the time went. My doctor said it was my age. The brain fog. I started forgetting which dogs were on which medications. I have run this rescue for twenty two years. I know every animal by name, by history, by what they need. I started writing things down that I used to carry in my head. Then I started forgetting where I wrote them down. The sugar cravings. Every afternoon at 4. Something inside me screaming for sugar. I would eat whatever was in the pantry. Cookies. Cereal. Spoonfuls of peanut butter with chocolate chips. I was ashamed. I know now what was happening. Parasites feed on sugar. They send signals to the brain demanding more. That craving was not mine. Something inside me was telling my brain to feed it. The same way the worms in Biscuit's gut were consuming his food before his body could use it. I was Biscuit. I just did not know it. The bathroom. I stopped going places. Stopped volunteering at the shelter fundraiser. Stopped going to church. An animal rescue woman who could not be more than thirty minutes from a bathroom. The weight. Twenty two pounds in six years. Eating less than ever. The skin. Patches on my arms that no cream fixed. An itching at night that woke me at 2 or 3 AM. I blamed it on the animals. On dander. On something in the kennel. It was not dander. It was not the kennel. It was what the kennel animals had given me. Three doctors over ten years. IBS. Menopause. Eczema. Anxiety. Chronic fatigue. Nobody checked me for parasites. I deworm every animal that comes through my door within twenty four hours of arrival. Three doctors in ten years never checked the woman who handles those animals every single day. The moment it clicked was in the kennel on a Tuesday morning. I was deworming a new intake. A little terrier mix someone found on the highway. I squeezed the paste into her mouth and she swallowed it and I said to my volunteer, "You always deworm first. Everything else second. An animal carrying a load cannot heal. Cannot gain weight. Cannot absorb nutrients." And I heard my own words come out of my mouth and I stood there in the kennel holding that terrier and I thought about my bloating and my fatigue and my fog and my cravings and my skin and my bathroom and I thought about twenty two years of animals passing worms into toilets and getting better and I thought about myself never once getting checked. I was the rescue that nobody rescued. I went home that afternoon and started reading. And what I found made me so angry I had to walk around my property twice before I could sit down. Sixty million Americans carry parasites. CDC number. Most do not know. The standard stool test your doctor uses catches about twenty percent of infections. You do not have to rescue animals to get them. You can get them from undercooked meat. From produce. From restaurant kitchens. From creek water. From your own backyard where your dog does its business. From your grandchildren who play in the dirt and then eat with their hands. From your cat's litter box. From the sandbox at the park. They are everywhere. And America stopped checking in the 1980s. But I had an extra twenty two years of exposure on top of all that. Every animal I rescued. Every parasite I cleared out of a dog or a cat or a goat. Every litter box I cleaned. Every face lick from Duke. Every kitten I held against my chest. Every coat I wrapped around a sick animal and then put back on. I had been swimming in it. And I had been deworming everything except myself. I tried two cleanses from Amazon. Both of them worked for about two weeks. The bloating dropped. Energy came back. I felt like the woman I was at fifty. Then it crashed. Everything came back worse. Same story every rescue volunteer has heard from a dog that was undertreated. You clear the adults. The eggs survive. The eggs hatch. The load comes back. I know this. I have seen it in animals a thousand times. Undertreatment is worse than no treatment because it clears the competition and lets the next generation explode. That is exactly what happened inside me. My vet, of all people, is the one who pointed me in the right direction. I was at the clinic picking up heartworm meds and I mentioned that I had been feeling terrible and nothing was working. She looked at me and said, "Linda, when is the last time YOU were dewormed?" I stared at her. She said, "You handle parasitic animals every day. You clean up after them. You sleep with them. I deworm my own dogs twice a year and I take something myself every spring. You should be doing the same." She told me about a formula she had heard about from another rescue woman. Seven compounds. Not just one. Because parasites survive four different ways and you have to hit all four at the same time or the cycle keeps going. The biofilm shield they hide behind. The eggs they embed in the gut wall. The toxic die-off from the dead ones. The bacterial and fungal overgrowth that comes with them. "You would never deworm a dog with one compound and expect it to handle everything," she said. "You use a protocol. Multiple compounds. Same thing applies to you." She wrote a name on a prescription pad. Not a prescription. Just a name. Lumvelle Wild-Harvested Wormwood Drops. Seven compounds. Same principle I use on my rescues. Multiple mechanisms at once. Wild Mediterranean wormwood for the adults. Same compound family as the ivermectin I give my horses. But the wild variety with up to ten times the concentration. Clove for the eggs. The piece every Amazon cleanse leaves out. Without it the eggs hatch in two weeks and the cycle restarts. I have seen this in dogs a hundred times. Oregano oil to break the biofilm shield. So the wormwood reaches the hidden colony. Pumpkin seed to carry the dead out before they decompose. So there is no toxic crash. Soursop leaf for a second kill pathway. Black walnut hull for the larvae. Aged garlic for the bacteria and yeast. Liquid drops under the tongue. Because a damaged gut cannot absorb capsules. I took the first dropper on a Friday night after kennel chores. By day three something was moving. Gently. No crash. The way a properly dewormed animal starts responding. You can see it in their eyes first. Then their coat. Then their energy. I saw it in myself. Week one. Bloating easing. The gas that had been distending my stomach every evening was quieter. Something that had been producing it was dying. Week two. Sugar cravings going quiet. The 4 PM screaming became a whisper. I walked past the pantry and did not reach for anything. First time in years. The skin patches on my arms started fading. Not from a cream. From the inside. The inflammation driving them was resolving because the source of the inflammation was being addressed. Week three. The week every Amazon cleanse had crashed. The week the eggs hatch in an undertreated animal. It did not crash. I stood in the kennel on the Monday of week three and I realized I felt the same way my rescues feel two weeks after a proper deworming protocol. Clear. Light. Like something that had been weighing me down from the inside had been removed. Week four. Brain fog lifted. I knew every dog's medication schedule without checking my notes. I remembered a foster family's phone number I had not called in six months. I was at the kennel at 5 AM again. Week six. Down eight pounds. Sleeping through the night. No 3 AM itching. No skin patches. Week eight. I went to the shelter fundraiser. First time in three years. Stood on my feet for four hours. Did not think about the bathroom once. Week twelve. Down sixteen pounds. My vet saw me at the clinic and said, "Whatever you did, keep doing it." I said, "I finally dewormed the only animal on my property that had never been dewormed." She laughed. Then she stopped laughing because she realized I was serious. Five months now. Down twenty pounds. I am in the kennel at 5 AM. I am doing rescue runs at night. I am lifting dogs into trucks and cleaning kennels and fostering kittens and handling every animal that comes through my door the way I always have. The difference is I am also deworming myself now. The same way I deworm them. On schedule. With a proper multi-compound protocol. The bottle sits on my kitchen counter next to the dog treats. Every night. Two drops under the tongue. Every animal on this property is dewormed. Including me. If you have a dog. If you have a cat. If your grandchildren play in the yard. If you eat at restaurants. If you buy produce at the store. If you have ever cleaned a litter box or picked up after a dog or worked in a garden or walked barefoot in grass. You have been exposed. That is not a scare tactic. That is biology. Sixty million Americans are carrying something right now. The standard test catches twenty percent. You do not have to rescue four hundred animals to need a cleanse. I just had a twenty two year head start on exposure. If you have been bloated every evening and your doctor calls it IBS. If you are exhausted and nobody can explain it. If your brain is fogging and you are afraid of what it means. If you have sugar cravings every afternoon that you cannot control. If your skin is doing things no cream can fix. It might not be IBS. It might not be your age. It might be the same thing I clear out of rescue dogs every single week. Living inside you. Feeding. Producing waste. Stealing your nutrients. Sending signals to your brain. Lumvelle Wild-Harvested Wormwood Drops. Seven compounds. Four problems. Liquid drops. Wild Mediterranean wormwood. Third party tested. Made in the USA. 90 day guarantee. Three months. If nothing changes, every cent back. https://lumvelle.com/products/lumvelle-wormwood-drops P.S. Biscuit was twenty hours from dying under that porch. His stomach was swollen with worms. I dewormed him on day one and within a month he was running in the yard. He is on a couch in a warm house right now because someone cleared what was inside him. If a beagle mix who was left to die can come back from that, so can you. P.P.S. If you have a pet at home. If your dog sleeps on your bed. If your cat sits on your lap. If your grandchildren roll around on the floor with them. You are sharing more than love. You are sharing an ecosystem. Deworm the animals. Then deworm yourself. P.P.P.S. The sugar cravings. If you stand in your kitchen at night eating things you cannot stop eating. That is not weakness. It is the same signal I see in a dog with a heavy worm load. They eat and eat and eat because the parasites are eating their food first. Your brain is getting the same signal. Feed me. Feed me. Feed me. By week two on a proper protocol, the signal goes quiet. P.P.P.P.S. No vet guarantees a single-compound dewormer will handle everything. That is why they use protocols. Lumvelle is a seven-compound protocol for humans. Ninety day guarantee. No doctor who ever called it IBS offered you that. P.P.P.P.P.S. Wild Mediterranean wormwood. Small harvests. Sells out. If you have animals and you have never dewormed yourself, check now. https://lumvelle.com/products/lumvelle-wormwood-drops I have rescued over four hundred animals. I dewormed every single one. The four hundred and first was me.