About a month ago I discovered a flea on one of my dogs during a late night date with our couch. I immediately combed through his frustratingly thick fur to locate the little bastard. To my chagrin when I found him, he was holed up with dozens more of his bothersome brethren.
With a sigh I realized that if he was infested, my other two must surely be suffering the same fate. The next day I bought oregano-scented flea shampoo, and dumped them all into the tub to lather them to their salvation. They sat there for a good long while afterwards, staring at me with the most morose of pouts, trying to figure out why they had been punished so. From there, their lives went to back to normal. They once again gouged through the garbage and sped after squirrels through the yard.
Then yesterday I spotted one again.
What cruel contest is nature subjecting me to? I shampooed the carpets, washed all the bedding (theirs and mine), and still these miniature menaces have made their comeback. Now I have to go through the whole process again. My dogs will love me for that …
Image: Simer Haer/The Cascade
