I think often of Caddyshack. I know how Carl feels. It's a struggle. These fuckers are going at it when I'm sleeping.
There was a fumigation already. It obviously didn't do the trick. It almost killed me, but what the hell? It didn't seem to do a damn thing to stop the next round. That stuff said it would kill the eggs, or hatchlings, or something. It seems to have produced a more resilient strain of flea.
There will have to be another fumigation. A bad one. It's getting nice outside, so I guess the tent is always an option.
This is being recorded digitally, mostly as a reminder that this particular now can't be visited again.
On the bright side, since I flatly refuse to discuss immediate family or work with my folks, we're more or less restricted to talking about fleas and personal fitness. "I think it was Jermaine Jackson that brought the fleas. I did this," I mentioned to the folks tonight over basketball.
They each looked at me funny. I guess the looks I perceived were the looks a guy could expect when he's named the last litter of Patty's kittens after the Jackson Five.
On a side note entirely, I think one of the estranged/presumed dead Jacksons came around this morning. There was another tom in the group, and the goddamn thing looks EXACTLY like the recently-late Pattymom. I nearly hit him with a BB, but it flew high and wide left. Jermaine is the only Jackson budgeted for the current tour. If there's some sort of hostile takeover, that's cat business, and I'll stay out of that. Jermaine should try and take care of the possum and raccoon first, I reckon. Me too.
Anyway, back to the Jacksons. They're the outside crew, and Jermaine has been around five years or so. He was here for the last big winter. We have an understanding of sorts. But part of that understanding never should have been me being stupid enough to leave the window of the F-150 down for a couple of months.
Patty was the main sleeper in the truck, historically. This has happened before. I'm pretty sure the fleas came from the F-150. There were tarps in there. I think I brought them in for cleaning, and shook out the start of something very, very bad.
I hadn't treated Nala for years. There haven't been fleas, that I've noticed. I'm noticing the shit out of them now, and that's when it's almost too late, by surface appearance.
The place is going to have to become spotless in order for this to work, I think. I'm not liking my chances. This would require a fundamental personality change. I suppose it's possible, but I'll obviously have to be the fellow getting it done. The fleas have to go. It's depressing.
Many battles have been lost (and won), but I am going to win this fucking war. Fucking fleas.
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