The War is Won

Last night when giving Klea a bath, I noticed that not one flea carcus made its way out of her fur. And upon deeper inspection, I can finally say that the war is won.

It was long and hard fought. Some battles were lost. But after 3 bottles of flea / tick / egg shampoo, 2 cans of carpet powder, a bottle of flea dip, a spray bottle of flea treatment, a nit comb, and a touch of my sanity - I have won.

I'm exhausted.

Waging the War On Fleas

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.

Where There's a Flea, There's a Major Meltdown

Sunday night is bath night for the animals. It's been that way since I can remember. Now, I know that some people don't believe in doing any work at all on Sundays but we are not those people. As I brushed Klea to get her ready for the inevitable, I spotted a tiny, black, walking spec in the clump of fur. I pulled the fur ball out of my ShedEnder and whispered, "Please don't be a flea".

Slightly panicking, I pulled her thick fur apart to look for more of these minute bastards. I found one. Angry, at myself not at Klea, I picked myself up off the floor, threw on my coat, and made way to my local pet store. I cannot explain how pissed off I was/am at myself. Klea's been scratching for days. When I got home on Wednesday, she had scratched a bald spot into her fur.

If you remember what we went through with Ginger, I thought that Klea might be going through the same thing. Or that it could be stress or the change in her diet. It never once crossed my mind that it could be fleas because she's never had fleas. It never occured to me that she didn't have fleas because I was super vigilant about treatments. (Just thinking about that tick makes me want to upchuck all over again).

Anyway, around 7:30 last night, Klea got a flea bath so serious that it turned her fur blue (which then took 3 rinses to get out). And then she got the flea dip. Then I put her in the storage room so that I could sprinkle carpet fresh for fleas and get it all vacuumed up. I will not tolerate bugs.

You got me once Mr. Flea, but now its game on.

Weekend Plans

This past weekend, Klea and I played it pretty safe. I spent more time at home than I have in the last month and she spent all of her time trying to bury the rawhide bone I gave her over a week ago.

First, she put it in my shoe cubby. Which I discovered as she growled at me while I was busy putting away my shoes. Then she put it in the storage room between the ironing board and the pantry shelf. But she nearly lost her mind when I went to fold the ironing board up and put it away.

When I was tired of picking up and decided to sit down to a delicious Greek meal, she hopped up on the sofa next to me and did this:

That's her digging up my coat to plant the bone safely beneath it. (I got several shots of her nudging the coat back over it to rehide her bone but they didn't come out as well.) She took one look at me looking at her and promptly unburied her bone to hide it someplace new.
This morning when I woke up, I stepped on the doggone bone. There it was, laying in the middle of my bedroom floor unattended. She came speeding into the room when she heard me yelp and after looking at me with indignance, picked up her bone and carted it somewhere new.

I really want her to just eat the stupid thing already.

Morning, Neighbor

I woke up this morning to discover Klea's newest trick.

She can get on the bed. I'm impressed because I have my bed frame on six inch risers. The bed is lifted high enough off the ground for her to walk under it without incident. So now that I see that she has managed to propel herself on to the bed successfully, I have a whole new bag of issues.

Corgis are already susceptible to spinal damage. And while jumping on may not cause too much damage, jumping off is incredibly dangerous for her. So, I'm going to buy her some doggie stairs. And mourn the loss of the last fur free spot in the apartment.

P.S. -- You like how I keep my clothes? This is why I never know what I have.

Early Morning Snack

This morning Klea managed to eat something while we were on our morning walk.

Yes, this is blog worthy. Because over the last 4 weeks, we've been having a major power struggle. She's getting more attention than she knows what to do with. Everyone loves "that kind of dog". Even I knew that I loved Corgis before I knew the name of the breed. One neighbor expressed breed envy with his Dachshund in tow.

The Old Marine looks for us everyday at quarter to six. Where he'll mosie from his porch with treats in his hand ready to tell another tale about the Corgi his father used to have. Klea and I stand and listen to another one of his stories before we all part ways. I think she likes this time the most.

Yesterday during our afternoon walk, she sniffed and sniffed and sniffed the same spot until finally! She sat down. I was flabbergasted! A passerby thought that was just the cutest thing ever and asked if he coud pet her. "Of course!", I say, "She's a good dog". He rubs her back and belly. She looks at me like she just stashed 50 million in jewels. He points out where he lives and lets me know that if we ever stop by he's got treats for her. She knows that she's won.

I've been trying to cut back on her treats and food. She's getting 1/4 cup less than normal because, quite frankly, she's 10 pounds overweight. And her legs are so little that I'm sure it's not going to be good for the longevity of her joints. Besides, she's a herding dog that's not herding. And if I can't get her the activity she needs to stay fit then I've got to regulate her caloric intake. It's the good mom thing to do.

Only she's resisting all of my efforts to get in shape. She likes to sit during our walks. And she won't fetch unless I run for the stick as well. Her GMa had been putting chicken stock on her food but I put the kibosh on that, so K-Dubs decided that she would eat... and then throw it up an hour later.

And since I won't give her 3 treats a day, she now tries to eat  absolutely anything she finds on our walks, up to and including, a dead goldfish, another dog's poop, a popsicle wrapper, a squirrel, a dead bird, unidentifiable roadkill, Burger King trash, lunch box remnants, ants, spiders, the contents of any abandoned cup, and a chihuahua. Yes, a chihuahua. The poor guy got loose and wasn't trying to go home. Klea was gonna send him to Jesus.

I've stayed vigilant. Carefully inspecting anything she puts her nose against. Always on the lookout for "the sideways glance and nibble" - the move that let's me know that she is definitely up to something. But this morning she got me. She managed to pick "it" up without skipping a beat. I'm convinced that her nose never hit the ground because one minute she was beside me and the next she was two steps ahead happily munching away.

Gotta love a good win.

Cats, Cats, Everywhere!

This is an email I sent my Mom today,

"By the way, Klea has been waking me up at around 5am for the last 3 days with her barking. So this morning I finally got up to see what she was going on about. We went on the porch and there’s a cat! Sleeping on my patio chair! Like he lives there! What do you suggest?




Keep in mind that I already told Mr. Cat that he can’t live there but I’m looking for more suggestions."

This is what she sent back,

"Well, if that didn't work, I can't think of what might!!!! :)




Seriously, Gram used to plant Merigolds each and every year because they supposedly keep cats away ... and come to think of it I rarely ever saw any around ... .but then again we also always had dogs on the premises .... coincidence???"


So, I guess I'm in the market for marigolds. Yay, me.