Sodding Fleas

Sodding Fleas

With the arrival of summer comes the arrival of fleas. It escapes me what purpose these horrendous fucking insects serve; I’m certain they exist solely to infest my home and feast on my flesh like disgusting, microscopic vampires.

When it comes to fleas the cats seem generally unperturbed, excluding the odd occasion when they suddenly become hysterical, charging forward in fits and starts, savagely attacking their limbs and screaming furiously at their own arses.

On such occasions I frantically consult my calendar, looking for the little sticker that says “Yes, you’re a responsible cat owner, you de-flead your darling little nuggets just recently and so they can’t possibly have sodding fleas again”.
Inevitably the desired sticker is nowhere to be seen and as I scrabble through the months, I increasingly feel like a terrible person.

I don’t honestly know why I concern myself so much with the wellbeing of the cats in these scenarios as, for the most part, they maintain their composure and seem indifferent to the revolting parasites establishing an alternate universe in their fur.
Meanwhile, despite being largely furless, the fleas seem quite content with sucking me dry until I’m reduced to avoiding human contact for fear that I may be mistaken for a long lost relative of the Elephant Man.

Cursing, I fumble through the “cat drawers” among numerous brushes, bowls, a bajillion of those free samples of cat treats found in every sodding box of Whiskas, a cone of shame and a discarded packet of ill regarded Pill Pockets.
As I emerge with my prize – three tubes of Frontline – the Trio begin to assemble. Despite repeated attempts to educate them, they have yet to grasp the concept of curiosity killing the cat.

Stuffing the Frontline into my pockets, I squeeze quietly past the cats and head for the kitchen door, hoping to make it before they realise there’s something amiss, but the moment the door clicks into place all hell breaks loose.
For the cats, confinement to the kitchen generally means one of two things; one of them is about to be rammed into the cat carrier while they frantically attempt to escape in some fucked up version of Pop Up Pirate, or they’re about to undergo flea treatment.

Clive immediately makes a break for the locked cat flap, skidding on the lino and slamming into it head first while hissing for dramatic effect. Meanwhile, Bailey takes aim at the lounge, scrabbling at the door and wailing desperately as he attempts to break through the glass and earn his freedom.
While I feel for them, these two are not my primary concern. My concern lies now with Harvey who is by this point hunched defensively by the bin, silently staring with hate in his eyes.

I can feel it before I hear it, his growl resonates through the floor and into my bones. The other two cease their efforts and freeze, horror on their faces.
I clench the liquid death in my fist, my knuckles turning ever whiter. Is it worth it? Is it worth reducing my arms to fleshy stumps in order to indulge in a campaign of genocide against the fleas and their parasitic companions? Maybe they’re not so bad… who needs blood anyway?
Harvey begins to slope towards me menacingly, his growl escalating in both depth and volume.
Suddenly I panic, my cowardice wins the day as I violently hurl the Frontline onto the counters and make a dash for the lounge.

“Fuck the fleas and fuck my life!” I shriek as the cats break free from their trance and begin to stare at me. They wonder how the hell they got lumbered with someone so unhinged. I prepare to sleep with one eye open.



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