I am sitting in the lounge, and Boris Barker, my faithful Weimeraner, is lying about 5m away, snoozing on his side, and blissfully unaware of the freaking 2#$%000 fleas having a beach party on the pink of his belly – round his nibbles and all along his schlong. His skin – and mine – is literally crawling. This, after we Frontlined the entire troop on Friday and sprayed again yesterday. I can just shit myself. Or at least ‘gril‘ myself.
Plan A: So, I casually get up of my flea-free (hopefully – although I am not so sure, what with 3 cats and 3 dogs) arse and nonchalantly meander past the slumbering canine, towards the kitchen and out the backdoor, to where I know the spray bottle of all natural, all organic Khakibos flea repellent is lurking in the courtyard. I retrieve bottle, which I straight away tuck into the back of my jean-pant and make my way back to the Flea Circus.
(While I am typing this, I swear I can feel the fleas nibbling at my ankles. No. really.)
The PLAN is to get as close as possible to the offensive hound, before hauling out the weapon of mass-flea-destruction, and letting rip with a vigorous finger pump-action, so that the infected area is sufficiently doused, and the fleas feel the full wrath of my itch and agitation. But, man, the animals in this house are sooo wary of anything with a snozzle, and as I am whipping out the bottle from behind my back, that Boris is already levitating off the floor and air-swimming towards the open front door. (Mental note to self: close all exits before attempting an operation of this nature.)
But, I manage to ankle-tap him, as he is whizzing by the coffee table, and I pin him -and his fleas – to the floor, as he stumbles. And then I furiously start squirting Khakibos – on the fleas, over his stomach, on the fleas, on his chest, on the fleas and on all the orifaces and appendages in his nether regions.
At this stage, Boris is most unhappy with the turn of events. To add insult to his khakibos shower, he is kicked out into the garden, where I hope the fleas will jump off and DIE. Of course, I cannot attempt the above herbal assault on any of the other dogs. It is too late. By now, they have caught a whiff, seen the spray bottle in my slippery paws and taken note of the illegal tackle I performed on their comrade (most unbecoming for the lady of the house.) I suspect they have alerted the SPCA and are cowering in the furtherest corners of the garden, behind the Corderlines, with the cats.
But I am satisfied. If that freaking Khakibos doesn’t poison the pests, I am confident that with the quantities I despatched, they will drown for sure.
On the plus side, the house is now smelling like a health shop, as Khakibos fumes subside. And I am no longer distracted by the f%&king fleas. At least for the next 44 minutes.