Klea got a flea.
I want to say that she got it from one of the thousands of leaves that my apartment complex has failed to rake up. And truth be told, she probably did.
But it would have died on site if I had been diligent about her flea treatments. I usually am in the summertime. This fall called for a variety of cutbacks as I was scrimping to pay off the last of my debt.
All the same, she scratched for a few days but it didn't seem to be anything out of the ordinary. She's always been the one to drag her body around my carpets. But I came home and she had scratched a bald spot into her fur. I decided to give her a bath and a good brushing, hoping that she was just dirty. Instead, I found a flea.
Immediately, I went to the store and bought shampoo, drops, and carpet cleaner. I'm trying to avoid bombing at all costs. This is not the first time I've had to deal with fleas. I had a very filthy roommate with a very filthy cat.
Poor Klea has endured a flea bath every week for the last month now. I've been checking her everyday since Sunday and I haven't seen any inkling that there's anything still hanging out in her fur. Not even any tiny flea carcasses.
This is the hardest battle I've ever fought. I know my generation hasn't made many stands or organized any national protests, but I feel like I have, if only in my own home.