The dog has fleas. The dog has fleas. Consequently A. and I also have fleas – or at least A. did last night, on his leg. Don’t get me wrong, I grew up reading Ranger Rick and World and various books about critters, even some of my folks and grandparents’ National Geographics (none of which inured me to spiders, but what can you do?) but I was still unprepared for how far these bad boys can jump. It was unreal.
So we gave her a quick bath just to scare the little bastards, and today A.’s hitting up the vet and I’m hitting up the store for some weird electrostatic powder thingie that will hopefully clean the carpets and finally we’re both shunning the sweet little fleabag until she can be dipped with effective! Prescription! Fleabag cream! And bathed again. At least she doesn’t sleep in our bed. (Though not for lack of hopeful brown-eyed attempts.)
She’ll get over it.
In brighter news, A. and I finally paid off our car. Conversely this makes me want to drive it less than ever. Since it’s probably infested with fleas at the moment, this is likely a good thing.