Today I had a lovely visit with my dad. His IV meds are doing their wonders. Of course, this is a short-term fix for a problem with no cure, but we are taking the time we've been given and are going to squeeze as much out of it as we can.
I had planned to stay longer, but he needed to rest and I was getting an odd tell-tale pain behind my eye.
When I arrived home, I noticed so much that needed doing that I immediately set to work attempting to solve other people's problems since I cannot solve my own. I'm weird like that.
I also obsess on my poor cat whenever there is a problem with either of my parents that I cannot possibly worry about, as they would not want me to. In an effort to honor them, I turn to Uncle Barb, my sad old diabetic nearly toothless cat - with fleas.
Uncle Barb was freshly scrubbed yesterday with the nice smelling herbal remedy. It does kill some fleas. Others.., well, I actually saw them scoff. Not even behind my back. Right to my face.
So, since I cannot cure Alzheimer's or congestive heart failure with pulmonary hypertension and a bunch of other odd things - I DID feel up to combating fleas.
Armed with a deep bucket in one arm and a bloodied flea-bitten cat in the other, I set to work in my lovely pink bathroom.
It SEEMED like a good idea at the time. I held dear old Uncle Barb up to his neck in nice warm slightly soapy water.
Now, let me pause here to ask you:
Have you ever seen those clips on TV of caribou running through the snow, migrating to who-knows-where?
This is very similar to the scene I witnessed on my cat.
Seriously. I paused for a moment to take in this strange spectacle. It looked as if the fleas where acting on the belief that if they were to reached the head of this cat a helicopter would pick them up and air-lift them to safety.
It was an ugly scene.
I held him submerged to his neck for at least 30 minutes. I used the shower head which - I wish I would have know before I started - does not drop down far enough to provide good spray on a small animal in a bucket.
Let's stop again so I can ask you:
Have you ever held in one hand a wet cat while it is being eaten alive my marauding fleas and in the other hand a shower sprayer and tried to effectively make contact with the two? Trust me. Don't do it.
Okay. Now where were we? Oh, yes.
Uncle Barb is now warm, well fed and resting comfortable.
Flea drops have been applied to him. The basement and back porch have been flea bombed and tomorrow the rest of the house will be done.
And now I shall go to bed to finish up reading Farmer Boy while wondering how in the world civilization has survived this long without having yet found a way to eradicate the simple cat flea. This seems like it should have been a priority over, say, putting a man on the moon.
But, nobody asked me.