Before I begin, for those of you who may be concerned, our dog, Jack, is alive and well. As it turns out, the gun only had blanks.
It’s been a rough week, tangling with the fleas and all, but I think we’ve finally conquered the seemingly unconquerable. After pulling out our hair, trying to pull out our dogs’ hair, and finally pulling out the hair on all of my kid’s Barbie dolls, we decided we had to do something truly drastic. We called in the SF Man. When you want a job done, and done right-call SF Man.
SF MAN came for the entire weekend. He walked in the door and took charge. He’s not a man to be trifled with. I believe the fleas were aware of that fact. As soon as his feet hit the living room floor, they stopped singing and started shaking in their little flea-shoes.
First, he opened up the sleeper sofa, took off the mattress and began to bleach. Yep. Bleach. He took bleach with a pinch of water and started scrubbing the part that held the mattress. Apparently that wasn’t doing it for him, so he just started to bleach everything that wouldn’t turn odd colors. Then he took the covers off of the couch cushions and vacuumed the inner foam. It was pretty gross. I had no idea how much stuff works its way through the material covering on couch cushions. I’m thinking I may just throw out the couch and loveseat and replace them with a wooden bench. Fleas aren’t big fans of a wooden bench.
In the end the SF MAN bleached and vacuumed the whole house like a mad man, or a SF MAN, it was beginning to be a little difficult to tell the difference. Just when we thought he was done- he broke out the poison. Poison in the house, poison in the yard, a little extra for the neighbor’s yard-he’s nice that way. After the poison he washed the floor-again. I’m pretty sure I saw him write a tiny death-threat and put it under a couch pillow right before he left. If the survivors of the Armageddon in my living room hadn’t already gotten the idea, I don’t see how a death threat would get through to them. I think the SF MAN just enjoyed writing the note. He was grinning. It was not an attractive grin. It was a scary “you’re so dead” grin.
I swear I saw the fleas, the ones that were left after the bleach massacre, ripping up their “you can’t touch this” signs and herding their children toward the cat. They looked way more scared than when I was chasing them with tweezers. I’m not sure why-I’m pretty dangerous with those things. It was probably the note. Maybe I should have thought of a note. Well I guess we can’t all be SUPER FLEA HEROES.
I titled this article, Family Flea Day, so you might be wondering how my daughter and I helped. You might be thinking that the Super Flea Man did all the work. Well if you thought that, you were completely wrong. We helped in the best way possible, of course. We cheered on The Super Flea Man. Every Super Hero needs groupies; otherwise they would just be heroes, not Super Heroes. We were the much-needed groupies for SUPER FLEA MAN. We clapped, and shouted “Go Dad Go! KiLLLLLL’em DEAD”. There were even a few jumps and spins involved. It was a very important job. We’re a little worn out. It’s tough being a groupie.
So, Super Flea Man just left town again a little bit ago. We’re resting from our cheering. Jack, the Jack Russell Terrier is lying on a freshly poisoned/washed dog pillow, and the cat is out transporting the refugees to a camp outside the perimeter of doom. All is well in the Roy household. I love it when we do stuff as a family.
