Flea Wars

It really wasn't my intention to break my long silence with a post like this, but the subject demands venting.  I was ashamed even to mention it, till I learned that it's a bad problem all over this year.

Fleas!

FLEAS!

We haz fleas!

And I thought we didn't.  I'd been sympathizing with my friend Hannah* since the end of last month, because her dog and cat and kitten and her whole house was infested.  I'd been empathetic with the customers who came into the Big Blue Box Store (where I've worked since last March) wanting advice on flea remedies.  I listened attentively-- for informational purposes only, I thought-- to a fellow store associate as she coached a customer in the flea-removal uses of Dawn dish soap.

My house had no fleas!  I hadn't seen any, and don't the kids all sleep with me?  I would be hopping with them myself if we had them, right?  True, Llewellyn had been itching awhile, so badly that he'd chewed the hair off the back of his hind legs.  But that had to be a dietary deficiency.  He'd grown immune to his dogfood, that was it, and I was trying out another brand to see if that would help.  And it seemed to, a little.

Then two days after the conversation in the store, Sunday night two weeks ago, I had Rhadwen in my lap as I sat at the computer.  And what do I see in her white fur?  Flea dirt!

She got a bath in blue Dawn that night.  She cried the whole time, but was very good and didn't scratch me once.

Llewellyn stood outside the bathroom door and barked and barked and barked!  Never mind your noise, goggie! You'll get yours.  Which he did, the next afternoon.  He's not fond of water, either.  I had to pick him up and put him in the tub.  But once in, he yielded to the treatment, with some trembling, poor thing.

The following Friday I noticed some more fleas on him when we were outside for his bathroom break.  He got a touch-up with the hose.

Last Saturday I headed for the local Tractor Supply store, because I heard they had economically-priced anti-flea medicine, and food grade diatomaceous earth at a good per-pound price.  It's made of ground-up fossils and its sharp-edged grittiness rips the nits and larvae to def!

Got the carpets vacuumed up as well as I could reach with my upright Oreck (with a flea collar in it to kill them), then loaded the garden puffer with D.E. and went to work in the guest bedroom (formerly the Kitten Room).

Oh, dear.  This will not do.  Diatomaceous earth.  As in earth.  Like, dirt.  It looked awful.  I just couldn't see coating my carpets with it.  And letting the dog and the cats roll in it and get filthy after their baths.  And having them and me track it all over the house, including all over the stairs I'd just touched up with nice, shiny new shellac.  It'd scrape the hell out of the finish.

I think I'll use it in the garden instead.

Meanwhile, the bathing campaign went on.  Last Monday, Huw got his.  He's very strong, and definitely let me know how he felt about it ("Maow!  maow! maow!), but he held still once he was in, and scratched my left arm only a little when at one point he tried to use me a a ladder.

Llewellyn got a repeat bath late Tuesday evening.

And Rhadwen had to undergo the ordeal again on Wednesday.  Poor thing, her head is so tiny it's hard to get it lathered up really well.  And just as I thought we were done, I noticed that a good many live fleas were headed for her face.  Noooooo!!!!!!  Die, monsters, DIE!!!!

By yesterday afternoon everyone had been bathed and had their topical flea medicine applied-- except for Gwenith.  At six years she's still my shy, skittish girl, and won't let herself be touched unless she feels she has you confined or at some disadvantage.  I even ran the bath for her Thursday night, but the water went cold before I could get her corralled.

But yesterday I caught her on the stairs, happily while I was carrying a towel, and whisked her upstairs and into the bathroom.

No pictures of Gwen in the bath.  The steam shorted out my digital camera while I was working on Rhadwen on Wednesday.  She reacted totally contrary to what I'd expected.  Thought I'd be chasing her all over the bathroom.  But no.  As long as I held her gently but firmly, and maintained a calm, soothing attitude (the attitude of the bath-giver is very important!) she held still.

Oh, she did cry at some points.  Sounded uncannily human:  "No! No! No!"  But when I was massaging the lather into her, she quieted down and even relaxed.

Which was a jolly good thing, because when I had her rinsed off and I thought we were done, when I had her out of the bath and onto the towel, I noticed her chest was still crawling with live fleas! Aaaaagggghhhh!!  Back in the tub, and through the whole process all over again!

Even then, I think there were one or two that were clinging so tightly to her fur I couldn't get them either with my fingers or the flea comb.  Tried and tried to get them out, and maybe I did, but I figured by then she had had enough.  After I dried her off, she ran into the guest bedroom and crawled into a rip in the box spring cover and hid.

Last night as I lay in bed reading she was speaking to me again.  Which was good, because her ordeal wasn't over:  I still had to treat her with the topical medicine.  Poor thing, betrayed again!  I got it on her, she headed for the hills, and I didn't see (or feel) her again last night.

What now?  Everyone has apparently forgiven me; at least, they're all being sociable and no little revenge presents have been left in the laundry basket.  Llewellyn still has some live fleas on him; at least, he did this morning, and got another sponge bath.  But he's not itching like he was, and the hair's growing back on his hind shanks.  The kittehs are still scratching here and there, but I don't know how long the histamine in a flea bite lasts after the fleas themselves are dead.

I wonder if there's a flea powder or spray I can use on the kids to supplement the action of the topical medicine.  And how long after applying the latter I can give them another bath.  Though I'd like to avoid that if I can-- and I'm sure they feel the same.

Still need to do something about the carpets and chairs and so on.  It's hard to get the place really clean, since I'm still, perpetually, eternally renovating.  But I have to try.  Forgive me, but I'm contemplating chemical (vs. mechanical) methods.

I wonder if my exterminator knows a product that'd be good.  Unfortunately, I find I forgot to pay him so far for this quarter's treatment.  I think I'd better take care of that before I go asking for free advice.

Just Had to Do It

I'll redo this when I have time. But for now . . .

Resolutions

I really should make a resolution to write something for this puppy at least once a week. It's not that I take my critters for granted, it's just that they are so consistently cute that I don't find myself jonesing to write about it. And when they're naughty . . . well, it's not really nice to talk in public about the rude things your kids do, is it?

Nevertheless . . . here's some pictures to be going on with.

Rhadwen in the red leather chair.

Rhadwen on the dresser.

Llewellyn and Huw exchange schmooz.

Gwenith keeps my ankles warm.

Like adoptive mom, like son.

That's good for now. This'll give me time to decide whether to tell about how this morning I discovered down the basement that the kittehs had pulled the big new bag of cat kibble to the floor and torn it open, and how it's heavier than I'm supposed to lift yet, but I lifted it anyway to put it away safe . . .

Everybody Has a Job

The plasterer is in this week to repair the ceiling in my 3rd floor study. And we all have jobs to do.

His job is to do the plasterwork.

My job is to refrain from asking him so many questions about doing the plasterwork that he never is able to do the plasterwork.

Gwenith and Huw's job is to make themselves scarce.

Llewellyn's job is to stay by me when I'm here and to pretend to like being cooped up in his crate when I'm not, and to contain the barking even if he doesn't like it.

And Rhadwen's job is to go wherever she pleases and look cute.

Definitely Not J. R. R. Tolkien's Elves

Before the Christmas season is over, I should send out this greeting from the House of the Flying Furrballs, courtesy of the people from Office Max and JibJab.com.

I think today it's time for the Nine Ladies Dancing. OK, one lady, three cats, and a dog, but who's counting?

Note to Myself

Next time I'm in the market for bedroom furniture, remind me not to buy anything with ring pulls.

Until then, remind me not to hide kitty treats and catnip in the drawer of my bedside table. Yeah, the drawer with the ring pull. Not unless I really like having my stripey kitteh Huw pulling it open and rifling it. As he has done the past two nights.

And then there's the fun he and Rhadwen have with the jewelry chest in the wee hours of the morning.

Yep, ring pulls again.

Oh, they are soooo clebber! Opposable thumbs, who needs 'em?

Mercenaries

My cats only love me for my body heat.

Really.

When the weather's cold out, they're all over me at night. I wake up in the morning in exactly the same position I was when I went to sleep, I'm so weighted down with kittehs at ankle, shin, and side.

But now that the balmy breezes blow and the temperature's heading upwards, Rhadwen, Gwenith, and Huw are nowhere to be found when dusk spreads its humid covers over the land. Or if they are anywhere near, it's in the windowsill, blocking the ventilation.

Damn o sob!

Well, at least my goggie Llewellyn still loves me. He's faithfully on the bedroom floor every night now.

Come to think about it, though--why didn't he sleep there in the cold of winter, when his body heat would have come in handy?

So whom was I calling mercenary . . . ?

And the Kittens Follow After

Gwenith and Huw had their own turn at the vet's today. Happily, for them, it was only for routine shots.

I knew Gwen would be a struggle to corral for the trip over. She's shy and elusive and very wiry and determined to break any hold on her. She would go in the one and only cat carrier. Huw was for the banker's box. He was fine with it last time we went to the vet's a few months ago; he should be okay with it again.

An early lunch served in the Kitten Room about a half hour before the appointment got them both within reaching distance. Once Gwenith had her head in her bowl, I grabbed her, took her struggling to the carrier, and popped her in. Done! And the uneaten food went in after.

I put the carrier on the floor of the car.

Huw's turn, now. I'd put the open box, lined with a towel, in the dry bathtub. I picked him up and put him in, and He. Refused. To. Stay. I grabbed the lid; he jumped out. I shoved him back in and put on the lid; he pushed it up.

It was with mighty effort that I got my boxed tabby down the stairs. He wasn't settling down happily; what if he got loose in the car?

Leash. I need to find a leash. Put the box down by the front door and weighed down the lid with some bricks I happened to have sitting there. Lightweight leash is in the basement. Go get it, remove bricks, don't need to remove lid: Huw's done that for me. Off he goes!

"Oh, no, you don't! Come back here!"

I catch him and loop the leash onto him, hoping I won't have to use it. Cat back into the box. Cat still trying to push out of the box.

Meanwhile, Llewellyn is very, very excited. He knows something is going on. He's not sure what, but it looks like fun and he wants to be part of it.

He refused to sit-stay inside and ran out the front door when I carried Huw out to the car. I couldn't put down the box until the car was secured, or I'd be advertising for a lost gray tabby. Llewellyn frisked by the side of the car; would it make sense to let him ride along, even if I'd have to leave him in the car at the vet's?

I grabbed the back door handle and let the dog jump in (O fanku, fanku!!). Got Huw's box into the front seat of the car and belted in, my purse on top for a weight.

Then changed my mind. Dog's staying home.

Charged with him back to the house, sent him inside ("Aw, Mom!!"), locked the front door, and ran back to the car.

By the time I had the car started, it was about four minutes to our appointment time. By the time I'd driven two blocks, Huw had pushed out of the box and was heading for freedom.

"Huw! No!" I pushed him back in with my right hand while steering with my left. The rest of the trip was like that, with me hoping he wouldn't choose a time when I had to shift gears to pop out again.

He protested all the way over. Gwenith was quiet at first, but presently joined her maows to the duet.

Happily, they both calmed down in the waiting room. They were no wise so noisy as another cat that was brought in afterwards. Though the loud efforts of that kitteh's mistress to hush it were more obnoxious than her cat's cries were.

And though Gwenith the Pink Princess had to be unceremoniously dumped from her portable palace and Huw the Bold made a strategic retreat behind the same chair Rhadwen favored the other day, neither of them put up the screaming-meemie, ai will kil u awl struggle their adopted mommycat/big sister did the other day. But they didn't have to suffer the indignity of having a thermometer shoved up their rears at the outset.

They are both strong and healthy. Gwenith now weighs 8.5 pounds. Huw her littermate tips the scales at 12.7. Why am I not surprised?

I got them home safely, and they have not shunned me since then. So I guess all is forgiven.

But before vaccination time comes round again, I assuredly must acquire another cat carrier. The present system is not working.

Nighty-Night!

My bed is a full house of a night. And a lively one as well.

(Hmm, that sounds dodgy. Oh, well. Let it pass.)

Last night, Rhadwen was on the bedspread, up by the pillows. That's her usual spot. I push her over a little, get in, and she hunkers down next to my shoulder.

A few minutes go by. I'm not asleep yet. Anon, I am not asleep at all. In streaks Gwenith! In flies Huw after her! They land plank! plunk! on the foot of the bed! They engage! In all the fury of sibling rivalry they wrestle, they battle, they fight!

MeeyowyowyowowowowMeeeeeeiiiiiiOOWWWW!!!! The din of feline howls rends the air!

"Shut up, kids!!"

The noise subsides, and Gwen settles down, effectively immobilizing my feet and ankles.

Huw, however, isn't ready for sleep. He stalks up towards the head of the bed and plops himself down right in the face of Big Kitteh Rhadwen.

She can't resist. She starts out by whapping him across the nose a time or two, then works herself into a looonnnnggg campaign of grooming him. Liklikliklikliklik!! Liklikliklikliklik!!

Then, just for variety, she commences to groom herself. Liklikliklikliklik!! With her plastered to my side the vibration shakes me and shakes the bed.

I am still not asleep. Or anywhere near it.

I contemplate how it would be with three or four more kittehs, all sleeping on the bed. All sleeping on me.

Oh, gosh, no. I'd never drop off, and once I did, with the weight of them I could never get out of bed in the morning.

Well, the bed could be even more full. Llewellyn the dog could sleep up there, too. But he's never been invited and he's never tried.

He's a huggy dog, but I'd say that's just as well.

Why Feed Birds?

The current issue of Birds & Blooms magazine features an article called "Why Feed Birds?" wherein various contributors "share why they feed feathered friends."

They came up with all sorts of lovely reasons . . . but none of them mentioned one of the big reasons I feed birds.

And why?

To provide entertainment to my goggie and kittehs, of course!



And it's not just the birdies that are so much fun, it's also the squirrels the birdseed attracts!

But alas, the fun is over for awhile.

Night before last a big wind blew through and knocked over the arbor vitae next to the birdfeeder. The feeder is under there.

Somewhere.