I’m a Magpie
It’s time to give the cat his monthly flea treatment. The first time we tried to do it (a mere dab of Frontline between the shoulder blades), he howled so loud and long that I worried our upstairs neighor would think we were strangling the little guy. And for months after, just the merest waft of fleagle treatment was enough to send the clawed beastie scurrying for the cat door. But these last few months, we’ve had it down to a science: one of us distracts the Monster with pets and treats while the other — in the next room — cracks open the dread treatment. Then while the boheamoth’s attention is elsewhere, squirt! Another thriving flea metropolis is no more. |
I'm a librarian. Special skills include dog charming, brochure writing, slapdash cooking and long-winded nattering. I also enjoy watching the sunset's reflection in the tall buildings downtown.
For a while there, I taught classes on Classical literature, philosophy, and the history of religion at New College of California. I have an MA and an MFA in Writing, and live on a boat in Sausalito, CA.
momeester
February 7th, 2007 at 1:06 am
Nobody at # 69 likes it either. it must really smell bad!!
seester
February 7th, 2007 at 2:50 am
puck and brittany love the flea stuff because after the flea stuff is the yummy-yummy heart-guard stuff.
mmm…chewy and delicious meaty flavored med’cine.
Mmmm.
Nora
February 7th, 2007 at 4:16 am
You see, The Beast That Lives in Our House just assumes he’s entitled to all the chewy and delicious meat flavor that comes his way, cause and effect be damned.
Someone told me last week that’s the difference between cats and dogs: dogs, you feed them, you love them, you take them for walkies, they think you’re god. A cat, you feed him, you pet him, you provide him with a loving home, he thinks he’s god.
Ours is the old testament kind.