This is a tale of woe.
It began two days ago when I noticed our favorite Mauzer scratching a little more than usual. Nothing dramatic. Just enough that I made a mental note to keep an eye on the pooch.
By the following morning, the scratching had increased. By evening, it had become an all-out campaign of chewing, biting, and frantic scratching that was tearing out fur and leaving cuts on Reiko’s skin.
Emergency!
I called her regular veterinarian, but the next available appointment was three days away. Three days?At the rate Reiko was going, there wouldn’t be any dog left by then.
Fortunately, less than a mile away is a place called VEG ER, which stands for Veterinary Emergency Group. Think emergency room, but with more tails and fewer insurance forms.
After a Keystone Kops-level comedy routine, I finally managed to corral the tormented Mauzer into Max’s old carrier and we raced off to the ER.
Once sedated, the mystery was solved.
Fleas. Not a few fleas. Not several fleas. This was the flea equivalent of a music festival. There were so many fleas that the fleas themselves were probably complaining about overcrowding.
I was stunned. Ashamed, too.
If I may say so myself, I am a meticulous housekeeper. I had seen no signs of fleas whatsoever. No bites on my ankles. No tiny black dots hopping across the rugs. No suspicious activity. Nothing. But this was not the time for self-reflection.
We had a dog to fix.
The veterinary team shaved large patches on her shoulders, rear end, undercarriage, and near several paws so they could properly treat the damaged skin. Within minutes, my beautiful fluffy dog looked like she had lost a fight with an industrial lawn mower. The exposed skin was as bald as the back of my head.
The best part of the visit was that Reiko was so thoroughly sedated that the staff realized they had been handed a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. They trimmed her nails. They cleaned up her beard. They performed a sanitary trim. They removed mats.
They generally took care of every grooming task normally considered impossible for a dog whose life mission is avoiding human contact. The staff explained they were not charging extra because they understood this level of cooperation might never happen again.
Such kindness!
We left the ER about $500 poorer, carrying prescriptions and a two-page guide on eliminating fleas from my home.
I hung my head in shame. Apparently my repeated claims of maintaining a clean house had not been persuasive.
But the story doesn’t end there.
When Reiko recovered from the sedation, it became clear she was deeply traumatized by the experience. The body language was heartbreaking. She acted like a dog that had been abused.
Maybe because, from her perspective, she had been.
One minute she was minding her own business. The next minute I delivered her to strangers who shaved her bald, poked her with needles, and stole half her coat. Trust was broken. All the progress we had made vanished overnight.
For the next 24 hours she hid in the deepest recesses available. No food. No water. No interest in seeing me. Any attempt to approach her resulted in panic.
I gave her space. Meanwhile, I declared war on fleas.
Every square centimeter of the house was vacuumed, washed, sprayed, scrubbed, and vacuumed again. The water heater was cranked to volcanic temperatures. Every toy, blanket, bed cover, and washable fabric went through the laundry. The Roomba thing ran so continuously I began referring to it as an employee.
Then things got weird.
After each vacuuming session, I emptied the canisters onto a piece of white drywall outside and examined the contents with a magnifying glass. Like a lunatic. Hopefully the neighbors were not watching.
I found three fleas. Three.
There had been hundreds on Reiko. I found three in the house. I called the ER veterinarian and explained my findings. She laughed and said that was actually excellent news.
The likely explanation was that Reiko had picked up the fleas outdoors shortly after some visiting wildlife passed through the yard. A possum. A feral cat. Something along those lines.
Possy, I’m looking in your direction.
The fleas simply moved aboard the all-you-can-eat buffet known as Reiko.
So now another day has passed. The medications have been acquired. Another $100 vanished from my wallet. I successfully concealed the pills inside a carefully crafted ball of melted cheese and left it beneath Reiko’s hiding place. Eventually she ate it.
Victory. A small one, but I’ll take it.
As I write this, Reiko remains suspicious, distant, and convinced that I personally arranged the entire flea conspiracy. She is drinking water. She is nibbling food. She is comfortable.
But the sight of me still sends her running. So we are back at square one.
Possibly square minus one.
I will continue my anti-flea campaign for a few more days, if only to ensure that no surviving flea can ever tell stories of what happened here.
Through it all, one stupid TV jingle from years ago keeps running through my head:
There ain’t no fleas on me,
There ain’t no fleas on me.
There may be bugs on some of you mugs,
But there ain’t no fleas on me.
Except apparently there were.
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