I realize the thought isn't quite rational but I'm beginning to wonder if the fleas haven't organized, rented a union hall somewhere, elected officers and recruited dues paying members.
It takes five cans of flea spray, most of the afternoon, and every bit of energy I have, but the house finally gets treated from one end to the other. I wash and dry all the bedding, towels, sheets, comforters, blankets and spray in every nook and crannie I can find. I open and spray drawers and closets and cabinets - at one point even crawling under the bed - prop up furniture to spray the bottoms, moving everything that isn't nailed down. Three hours in I'm past the point of no return, two more and I'm finished and too exhausted to do anything but crawl into a cool shower. It's a bitter battle, I'm insecticided-out, and the dogs despite being bathed and treated are still scratching. Who knew that a society capable of sending a man to the moon wouldn't be able to defeat a simple flea. It really is the small things in life, sometimes things that you can't even see, that suck the life out of you and wreck your sanity - temporarily, praise the Lord - but still.
The back deck is littered with dead leaves, a sure but so far solitary sign of fall. Dark is beginning to come a little earlier but not so much that anyone notices. Sitting outside I can hear the squirrels at play in the treetops while the no-see-ums chew and suck at my ankles and arms. I don't feel the bites at the time - it will be several minutes later after I'm inside that the itching will start and I'll eventually reach for the wire brush that I use on the dogs and scratch my skin til it's raw and bleeding - I've always preferred a little pain to a lot of itch.
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