We had fleas. And worms. Alright, it wasn’t the end of the world, but it was pretty close. And we felt very inadequate for the job. I found myself being nostalgic over how easy it had been to keep house B. C. (“Before Cats”). And now, fleas (and worms) in my freshly cleaned house!
Well, this was war. There was only one thing to do. Armed with sprays, shampoos, and vacuum cleaner, I planned my campaign. First, shut the kittens in the family room and clean the basement. Second, bathe the kittens, one at a time, putting the laundered cat into the clean basement. Third, clean the family room and kitchen. Fourth, collapse in exhaustion and pray that it worked. A month later, repeat.
Part one went well. After all, why not? I was working alone. Everyone else was consoling the cats for what they were about to endure.
Part two was not as smooth. We chose Archie to go first since Missy would probably be more difficult. But Missy did not understand why she was being excluded. She stood on the other side of the bathroom door, crying. Did she think that we were having a party without her?
Archie didn’t think it was a party. He expressed his displeasure vocally, becoming more and more agitated by the atrocities we were committing on his person. And Missy answered him yowl for yowl from the other side of the door.
Washed, rinsed and blown-dry, Archie was now ready to go to the clean basement. And it was Missy’s turn.
She hated it. She struggled, meowed and scratched, but we were inexorable. The shampoo was applied over her protests. Then it was time to wait five minutes for the flea-killer to work.
Missy did not understand, though. She must have though we were getting some perverse pleasure out of torturing her with soap and water. She continued to complain and struggle. Then she took her best shot. With all the power of her young jaws, she sank two tiny kitten fangs into the only part of my body she could reach: my right thumb. Twisting her head and rolling her eyes, she looked at me. Her message was clear: “Let go of me and I’ll let go of you.” For a moment I was tempted to take her up on it.
But I had to be wiser than she. I knew what was necessary to free her from her affliction. So, removing my thumb from her mouth, I hung on. And soon the ordeal came to an end. She too was finally done and in the basement. She sat down to thoroughly clean her coat, giving me dirty looks as if to say, “Look what you did! I’m a mess!”
The First Flea Skirmish was over. Though not at all of one mind, together we had prevailed.
It’s reassuring, Lord, to know that Your wisdom divine
Is totally unsearchable, and greater far than mine.
To know that when I cry complaints and bite in my dismay,
That You are just restraining me to clean my “fleas” away.