Fleas
We’ve traded in mosquitos for fleas. I didn’t want to believe it when the vet told me last year that you have to keep your monkeys on Frontline all year round in LA. We’ve never had a flea problem before, I argued. I don’t want to put chemicals on him!
Suit yourself, she told me.
So I suited myself and kept him off the Frontline, and this weekend discovered the front lines of an army of fleas marching on us. Right in between his hairy ham hocks up to his tail nub.
Crap.
A few of you know how (over)zealous I can be in insecticidal warfare. Ever since a college-age scabies scare, I’ve (over)educated myself on how to kill bugs without mercy. It might involve, say, coating the entire bottom surface of a bed with vaseline. Or, creating two discrete and separate laundry mounds, surrounding each with a moat of upsidedown carpet tape. Or, in the case of this weekend, having the dryer blasting on Super Mega White-Hot Sun Intensity 24 hours a day, constant and unrelentless monkey buns combing, vacuuming all cracks (both household and monkey) using all of the attachments that Dyson can invent, and sprinkling ground up seashells and Borax wearing full on battle gear.
I don’t kid around with battle gear either. (Ask my mom about my sage advice when she had to fight a bird in the downspout last year.) Let’s just say my flea gear included a pair of vintage motorcycle googles and a metal sieve, and a full body coating of tea tree oil.
This morning, we appeared to be flea-free. I’m not counting my chickens, though. I’ve got a giant tub of nematodes on order.
So… how was your Fourth?
