"Are most of your patients dogs?" I quietly ask the receptionist.
"Oh, no," she says. "We take cats, too."
I gaze around the bark-filled room, then back at her.
She shrugs. "Some days we just seem to get all dogs," she says.
Domino is making himself as small as possible in his little carrier, and is shedding fur like mad. Simon fills his larger carrier so his cringing isn't quite so evident. But I can tell... neither one is happy with me this morning.
After Domino's encounter with Mama Fox, it occurred to me that they really should have rabies vaccine. If Mama Fox had gotten close enough to sink her teeth into his flesh, and if she was carrying rabies, we would have had a real problem. Even if she wasn't carrying rabies, unless we could prove so, we probably would have had to quarantine Domino. Or worse.
The possibility of or worse has me worried. So here we are, surrounded by all kinds of big dogs, in a waiting area that seems much too small to suit my cats.
When our turn comes, we emit a continuous, low growling sound as we pass through the other patients to enter the examination room.
So I explain our situation to a vet who is new to us and whose mind seems to be somewhere else. The assistant gathers syringes and I am trying my best to keep Simon on the table. He has a memory of this place, which is not in my favor.
"Oh, I see a flea," the absentminded doc casually announces.
"They haven't had fleas in years," I say, trying not to sound defensive.
He sort of hears me and tells me to use Advantage, but I already have decided the flea is a hitchhiker left behind by the big dog who preceded us.
When we get home I distribute a generous amount of cat treats to reduce the trauma of the morning and reestablish good will.
The next morning I stand near the front porch watering flower pots. My poor sunflowers and marigolds had been neglected while the fox family was in residence. I apologize to them as I tip the water can and then I feel something, a sudden terrible itching on my leg... on both legs.
I set the can down and desperately pull up my pant legs. There, in startling contrast to my alabaster shins, cling all these tiny black specks. When I try brushing them off they begin this frantic dance. Fleas! Dozens and dozens of them, biting and jumping and leaving itchy red welts on my poor legs.
I jump up and down like a crazy woman. I have never seen so many fleas in one spot in my life. The Mama Fox and her little ones left us a souvenir and I am not happy. No siree. Not happy at all.
I go inside and de-flea myself. Then I take another look at Domino, who is madly scratching himself. I see Simon doing the same thing, although with slightly less vigor. His thick fur must provide some protection.
So the next few weeks go something like this:
An immediate trip to Petco to pick up Advantage. Lots of it.
Putting one cat, then the other, in a gentle headlock to pluck fleas from around their faces and ears. Quite simply put, they hate this (of course) and try their darndest to avoid me when they see the tweezers coming. I get good at dragging Domino out from under the bed.
Vacuum. Spread borax and vacuum some more.
Apply cream (repeatedly) to the hundreds of red, itchy spots on my body.
Make a trip to the hardware store and find someone who is knowledgable in the area of flea bombs.
Set off flea bomb under the porch. This goes against every natural bone in my body, but we do it any way. There just isn't anyway to sprinkle borax under the front porch.
I am pleased to report that with persistence and sheer grit we finally conquered the little buggers.
Fixing the opening under the front porch has just moved significantly higher on our ever-growing 'to do' list.
