Unfleaing the Scene
The cat, it seems, has fleas. And the vet's office doesn't open for hours. Believe me, though, as soon as it does I'll be there, rapping on the counter, demanding the anti-flea goop. I'm sure the cat will back me up on this when I say that a good life does not include fleas. I can live without a sailboat, although I would like a sailboat. I can live without lots of things. But a flea-free house is something I must insist upon.
I know whereof I speak here. Years ago, as a stripling, I shared a house with a couple of other people. One of them was a fine fellow, a first-rate person who nevertheless tended to come down on the crunchy-granola side of whatever question came up. He had a dog, and the dog got fleas, and the guy insisted on trying an "organic" flea abatement system he found somewhere. This consisted of, I swear to God, an acorn cap, you know, that sort of beret thing that acorns wear, that you tied to the dog's collar. Then you had a little bottle of eucalyptus oil, from which you put a few drops on the acorn cap. As far as I could tell, this didn't kill any fleas. In fact, they seemed to lap it up and yell for more, because before long there were so many fleas that they seemed to make a gray haze about six or eight inches up from the floor. They would jump on your legs from the rug. The guy agreed to bomb the house—he owned it, which gave him a vote in what went on, I suppose—and I took charge of the matter. I got these military-looking canisters with triggers like hand grenades and I lit 'em off, baby. Whole house from top to bottom. When I went back in, it was very quiet. And it stayed that way. Organic works for some things. But at that time and place, serious poison was the answer.
They have some pretty drastic topical stuff on the market these days. The vet called last night and we discussed it, because my guy has a heart murmur and kidney issues. She assured me this one product was the answer. Collars? Dusting powder? She said they don't work. But in less than five hours, I can get something that does. And I will. I regard having fleas in the house pretty much the way I do uncontrolled fire—it's not acceptable, and in the absence of something even worse going on it becomes the priority by default. Like I say, I'm sure the cat is with me on this. He's sleeping peacefully right now, the poor flea-bitten feller. Five hours, buddy, till the office opens. Then the killing starts. You don't play around with fleas.
I know whereof I speak here. Years ago, as a stripling, I shared a house with a couple of other people. One of them was a fine fellow, a first-rate person who nevertheless tended to come down on the crunchy-granola side of whatever question came up. He had a dog, and the dog got fleas, and the guy insisted on trying an "organic" flea abatement system he found somewhere. This consisted of, I swear to God, an acorn cap, you know, that sort of beret thing that acorns wear, that you tied to the dog's collar. Then you had a little bottle of eucalyptus oil, from which you put a few drops on the acorn cap. As far as I could tell, this didn't kill any fleas. In fact, they seemed to lap it up and yell for more, because before long there were so many fleas that they seemed to make a gray haze about six or eight inches up from the floor. They would jump on your legs from the rug. The guy agreed to bomb the house—he owned it, which gave him a vote in what went on, I suppose—and I took charge of the matter. I got these military-looking canisters with triggers like hand grenades and I lit 'em off, baby. Whole house from top to bottom. When I went back in, it was very quiet. And it stayed that way. Organic works for some things. But at that time and place, serious poison was the answer.
They have some pretty drastic topical stuff on the market these days. The vet called last night and we discussed it, because my guy has a heart murmur and kidney issues. She assured me this one product was the answer. Collars? Dusting powder? She said they don't work. But in less than five hours, I can get something that does. And I will. I regard having fleas in the house pretty much the way I do uncontrolled fire—it's not acceptable, and in the absence of something even worse going on it becomes the priority by default. Like I say, I'm sure the cat is with me on this. He's sleeping peacefully right now, the poor flea-bitten feller. Five hours, buddy, till the office opens. Then the killing starts. You don't play around with fleas.
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