If you have pets, you will deal with some not so fun things. Poop is really nothing in the big picture. Let’s talk about “infestations” and perhaps you will have the appropriate “creepy-crawly” reaction.
It seems that me, my house, my children, and my pets (aside from the fish thank god) are under the throes of a flea infestation. Great, first the swine flu and now fleas. Can’t all the dang bugs just leave me alone? But this opportunity to scratch myself silly brings to mind a previous pet tragedy. His name was Sampson.
Sampson was a gorgeous Maine Coon that we had gotten from the Humane Society and while he loved us, he loved his daily forays into the natural world even better. It stands to reason, he got rather intimate with more than just the lady kitties. (Imagine their surprise for no ensuing babies that looked just like Sampson – the kitty ho of the neighborhood.) Where ever he was traipsing about, he seemed to find a flea now and then. It was fine, we dealt with it, no big deal. And then we moved.
Our new apartment had a back yard-type grassy space, although no human would have wanted to frolic in that grass, let me tell you. And just to keep the whole place spiffy looking, there was bark dust all over the place. We didn’t really think much about it. Bad move.
About a week after moving in, I realized that Sampson was being much more affectionate than usual. Typically, this was the kind of cat that hung out in places such as under the bed or in the dark recesses of the closet. I guess he had some issues besides being a love machine. So, rather than being concerned as to why my cat was suddenly sitting on the couch, I just took the opportunity to pet him. Life continued in this fashion for a few days.
And then I caught him in the act. But this was not the act of in flagrante delicto. Oh no. This was a mad, scrambling dash from bed to dresser, one mad jump into the hallway, another onto the back of the couch, onto the coffee table, chair, side table, dining room chair, to the food bowl where he desperately scarfed down his kibble while his poor little flesh crawled. We were apparently living in the lion’s den of flea activity.
To say I bombed the hell out of things is perhaps putting it mildly.