Flea Bitten

I dipped my cats tonight. Yippee-frickin'-doo, what a way to spend a Friday night. The fleas are taking over, though, so I bought out Petco of every last poisonous chemical that would guarantee death to the little bloodsuckers and got ready for some fun.

It was just Aengus and me, so of course we had to make this a little game, right? Aengus chased our poor cats all through the house with the box from our new, cheap-ass coffee maker (long story; the gist of it is that I am once again caffeinated). He figured that once he caught a cat in the box, we'd transport it to the tub and proceed to give it the bubble bath that would so obviously be a lovely experience for the kitty.

Silly boy.

Well, he did manage to catch one cat (Spot, the most timid of the lot) in the box. No sooner had I gotten the lid shut on her (am I the supportive mom or what? Restrain a cat in a small, dark box? Of course we can, honey!) than she slipped through a crack and skydived across the kitchen and hauled ass upstairs.

Round two: Smoochy. Now, Smooch is our most vocal feline and would be voted Most Like a Crackhead. Let's just say she's a little twitchy. Well, I managed to grab her without trouble, got her in the bathroom, held her in the tub, and started to tell Aengus to "Shut the door! Quick! QUICK!" when Smooch flew across the bathroom and through the doorway, bounced off the opposite wall in the hallway, and tore down to my bedroom to seek safety. Aengus is, by this time, in absolute hysterics.

Yeah, laugh it up, boy. Just you wait until we actually get one of them wet.

Finally, we caught Rumer. Now, Rumer is our eldest cat, being close to 100 in people years. He's ornery and slow and seems arthritic. Once we got him in the tub and started the water, though, he seemed to find that he had a little spring left in his step. I managed to hang on to his flea collar through the process, so he couldn't escape, but he showed me just how vocal the ol' coot can still be. Oy. He was howling up a storm, and Spot and Smooch were out in the hall, howling right back.

"Help! Get me outta here!"

"We're trying, we're trying! How do we get this damn door open?"

"Just bust it down and get me away from this bitch!"

Poor guy. I'm just glad the whole thing didn't give him a coronary.

With Rumer safely deflea'd and released, it was time to hunt Spot again. Surprisingly, she was easy to find: the dummy was waiting for Rumer in the hallway. Thinking a lot faster than I usually do, I scooped her up and dashed back inside the bathroom.

I felt terrible dipping Spot. She's so delicate and timid. Plus, she's mostly white (with... you guessed it, spots), so you could see her pathetic pink skin and fragile little limbs. And with her chosen method to attempt escape, I basically had to hold her in the air by her flea collar, practically choking her the whole time. Sorry sweetie, but you'll be happier without the fleas.

And finally, we were back to Smooch. Holy. Crap. That cat did NOT take it like a man, let's just say that. And I thought Rumer had howled; Smooch sounded like she was dying. Slowly. And she was constantly twisting into the air and spazzing and trying to escape, which made Aengus laugh all the harder. Thanks for your help, buddy.

We tried Aengus's suggestion of filling the sink and dunking Smooch to rinse her off. It actually worked, kinda sorta. And she looked damn cute in her little kitty hot tub. But she still needed a run under the handshower to get all those poisonous suds off her, so I hosed her down quickly. The second I released her, she shot across the room and sat, shivering, at the door in a huge puddle. Do you have any idea how much moisture a cat's coat can carry? We're talking gallons here, people. (And that was your science for today, Aengus.)

The original plan called for a dip o' the cats and the dog, then a bombing of the house, too. But I'm exhausted, and I don't have enough bomb for the whole house, anyway. So Bear gets a reprieve. I'm replenishing my energy stores, buying another bomb, and getting all the foodstuffs out of the house. Once the dog gets her fun in the tub, I'm declaring war on the house.

And goddammit, I'm buying Frontline in the spring!