Yesterday and today, George and I noticed our small dog, Poppy, wouldn't rest. She'd find a spot to lie down, settle in, and then pop up again and wander the rooms aimlessly. Anyone who has dogs knows that they spend an enviable amount of time napping, and it's the very best thing ever to have a constant snuggle buddy as soon as you hit the pillow/couch/floor/whatever. I just thought she was just missing her regular couches and pillows and nap spots. So I picked her up this morning to give her a tummy rub and squealed as the fleas leapt onto my arms instead. I freaked out. I don't know what I was thinking. This IS flea country, and George and I usually gave her a special treatment even when travelling to my parents' house in Missouri. Here we had gone and moved into pest territory central and left the dogs to fend for themselves. I felt terrible.
In the quickest amount of time possible, I found a vet clinic and ordered up some Frontline. Baths were in order and then treatments. Fortunately, we have no real furniture around for the fleas to have invaded. But I packed up every bit of clothing and bedding and headed to the laundromat. No one was there when I arrived, which is always nice. I soon figured out why: no ventilation system. I have never sweat before doing laundry, but there I was like olden times, just missing the ankle-length dress.
Once everything and every pet was cleaned, treated, and isolated in the kitchen with the handy baby gates, I gave up for the day. The entire episode took me six hours to execute, and I felt miserable and kept scratching at imaginary pests all over myself. George and I hopped into the car to rent movies. "Welcome Home Roscoe Jenkins" made me feel better, even if the tacked-on ending was lame, as I relaxed in my electric blue lawn chair from Wal-mart.
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