Back in June, we noticed fleas covered both dogs. And the cat. And us whenever we worked outside for any appreciable time. Yuck. Fleas. It’s been a bad year for fleas.
We found a carpet spray and vacuumed like crazy. But when 11-year-old grandson came for a short visit, he spent a lot of time picking fleas up off the floor and putting them in baggies. Jim and grandson drowned the fleas in hot water. Double yuck.
After sending grandson home, we bombed the garage and two bedrooms. We tore the living room apart, washed and sprayed and vacuumed. We sprayed the yard, both front and back, for fleas. We took the dogs to the groomer, had Juno shaved, and had the groomer apply more Frontline.
Oh, did I forget to say we regularly applied Frontline?
We bought a flea comb for the cat. We set up a light at night and used the sticky backside of vinyl tiles to catch fleas. And boy howdy, did we catch ’em.
Jim brought home stories from the golf course of others with a similar flea problem.
Getting the dogs and cat ready for their annual pilgrimage to the vet, Juno tripped me. August 4, it was. I’d already overworked my knees trying to clear gardens for a fall planting. But now unable to put any weight on my left knee, I hightailed it to the urgent care. They suggested crutches and an orthopedic surgeon. He suggested an MRI and cortisone. After a month with cane and/or crutches, I ended up at physical therapy.
I can walk again, but have been repeatedly warned to stay off it. For more than a month. So no walking for me, probably through September. My gardens are a disaster. My pets have gone a little feral.
This wouldn’t have happened except for the dogs and the fleas. Right?
And now we are finding … moles …