My God I've Fleas

A couple of weeks ago we noticed the dogs were scratching and biting themselves, and closer inspection revealed visible flea dirt on Oscar. I then determined that what I had thought was a mosquito bite or two on me was likely a flea bite or two. Cathleen went to the pet store a day later and bought some anti-flea shampoo, and we followed that up with that toxic anti-flea oil you put on the back of their necks.

And that is when the flea biting of Rick began in earnest. Two or so weeks later and my arms and lower legs are covered with upwards of two dozen flea bites. Last year the dogs had fleas, we bathed them in the shampoo once and that was the end of it. This year, not so lucky. When it became clear that the flea problem persisted, we washed every sheet, blanket and pillow case in our room. We've now done that another three or four times. Two days ago I sprayed the room with some undoubtedly carcinogenic anti-flea chemical, and we've vaccuumed a couple of times. We intend to maintain this vigilance over the course of the next week and hopefully our blood-sucking friends will cease to exist.

In the meantime, I am fairly miserable. I apparently fall into that category of people who are highly allergic to flea bites and have severe reactions. My reaction is following a classically-described pattern: small bites with red halos eventually turn into large welts; the itching at times is intense, and it takes days for a bite to fade away entirely. It is not even amusing to me to be able to look at myself in the mirror and say, "you sad, flea-bitten sack of shit." Well, it's a little amusing. The itching and burning, in and of itself, would be especially annoying, but what is driving me over the edge is that Cathleen has nary a bite on her. "I think I had one," she has mused. We sleep in the same bed with the same dogs, and I am being slowly consumed by a Biblical plague, and she is bite-free. Where's the equity in this partnership?