Prepoceros

We’ve been having a bit of a flea problem lately, and when I say “we” I mean that Sam has been getting bitten, and I’ve been trying in vain to exterminate the nasty critters by various chemical and mechanical* means.

First we tried flea drops, the kind where you break open the little tube and squeeze it down the dog’s back. We’ve used that since Sam came home six months ago, but apparently the fleas have decided they don’t give a shit about drops any more.

Then we got some hippie “natural” chemical spray. Now, this potion *does* kill fleas, but only if it covers them. As far as I can tell, this is the same way that water kills fleas, so it’s a good thing this crap was only five bucks more expensive than a bottle of Ozarka.

At this point Sammy was getting muddy in addition to being flea-bitten and chemical-soaked, so we threw him in the bath. More fleas than I could count “jumped ship” in a shocking display of grossness, but as soon as he hopped out and dried off, their vile progeny crawled out of the carpet and hopped right back on board.

Next we went for a spray that was a little more expensive, i.e., one with actual flea poison in it. The bottle was emblazoned with all-caps warnings that it shouldn’t be used within 30 days of another flea treatment, and that it was a violation of FEDERAL LAW to use this product in a manner discouraged by said warnings, but I figured if the drops and the hippie spray hadn’t even killed the fleas, they probably hadn’t done much to Sam, either. All the same, I kept the label in case he got sick and I had to call the vet.

Of course he didn’t, and neither did the fleas. I drenched the poor puppy with that spray (he HATED it), and the fleas disappeared for maybe 12 hours or so before coming back in full force. Repels fleas and ticks for 30 days, my ass.

(I should mention that in the meantime I’d also been spraying the couch, bed, carpet, etc. with both sorts of sprays. Didn’t help.)

So today we finally went to Petsmart for a flea dip and a haircut. Again, I felt a little guilty checking the box that said “I solemnly swear my dog has received no flea treatments in the past thirty days,” when really he’s had at least two in the last week. But there’s a doggie hospital in Petsmart, like, NEXT DOOR to the grooming place, so he’ll be ok, right? Bottom line, I’m not waiting four more weeks to get rid of these dang fleas.

While Sam was at bathcamp I washed all my bedsheets, blankets, clothes—everything that would fit in the washing machine—picked most of the crap up off the floor, took out the trash, and sprayed the carpet, walls, and everything squishy with the hippie spray AND the poison spray. (I’m surprised we’re both still breathing, honestly.) Those little shits had nowhere to hide.

Yay! Problem solved, right?

Half an hour after we got home, Sam rolled over to ask for a belly rub, and I’ll eat my own foot if there weren’t a dozen motherfucking fleas wriggling their nasty little selves all over his tummy. Aw helllllllll no.

There was lots of foul language (some of which has spilled over into this post, sorry), lots of pinching those mofos to death one by one, and lots of spraying like a madwoman (not on Sammy this time—I really am a little worried about all the poison).

He’s not scratching at the moment, but if he’s still got creepy-crawlies on him tomorrow, I’m calling Petsmart to tell them their flea dip is poo. And then . . . I don’t know. I thought a professional flea treatment would be the nuclear option here, but apparently not so much.

What comes next? Shampoo the carpet? Call the vet? Move to Alaska?

[UPDATE: I called Petsmart, and they’re retreating him today for free. Keep your fingers crossed for us.]

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* Dozens of fleas have personally felt my Fingernails of Death. Totally gross.

Tags: Sam

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