De-fleaing the house was like a day trip to purgatory. We meant to do most of the work--picking everything up off the floor and vacuuming the whole house--the day before, but we frittered the day away, and I kept thinking we'd have a burst of efficiency in the evening, but Jon had a "meeting" with one of his bosses, in a bar, at 4:30 and ran into some friends and went to a different bar, where I joined him and we didn't get home until late and so got almost nothing done.
We were grumpy on Thursday morning, and, truth be told, had a terrible fight. It was such a bad fight that Jon started bellowing about where are the suitcases (naturally he wouldn't be able to find them on his own even thought we JUST got back from a vacation) and I helpfully pointed out their location in the far back of the closet under the stairs. In the midst of stacking all our belongings on top of tables and counters, he's tearing through this closet, and actually extricated a suitcase which he carried to the bedroom and dramatically began to pack. I was all, "Really? He's leaving me in the middle of a flea extermination?" And he was all, "You said you never wanted to see me again!" (What I'd SAID was that I never wanted to see his face again.)
I supposed that exterminators are people who usually have good stories and I thought of asking ours how many marriages he knew of that had been ruined by fleas.
At any rate, the fight sort of fizzled after that and the suitcase was quietly unpacked and put away and we did manage to be ready in time for the flea guy, but only just. Poor Sancho, one of our dogs, is a neurotic and timid sort of dog who doesn't handle change well. He has already been upset about me repainting the living room, so Thursday's fighting and furniture rearranging got him really rattled and he hid under the azalea in the front yard, which is where he goes when life is overwhelming, and refused to come out, and it was like the day we got the Christmas tree all over again. When the flea guy came, Sancho decided that he was responsible for this disturbing change in our domestic routine, and he barked a tad too aggressively. Luckily, the flea guy is one of those people who is good with dogs, so I don't think there are any hard feelings. Poor Sancho's troubles weren't over, though. Jon gave him a bath in the backyard and he detests baths above all things. Luna, our other dog, is more laid back, and since we've had her for ten years, she is used to periodic eruptions of chaos. She will even placidly endure a bath.
George the bunny, on the other hand, had a wonderful day. The girls carried his cage over to our neighbor's fenced-in yard and he had a lovely romp in the grass.
Applying the flea product only took about 15 minutes and afterward the exterminator regaled me with flea lore. Did you know that after the bombs were dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, the fleas continued to hatch because not even a nuclear bomb can harm their eggs? I never asked about the flea/divorce connection.
The new bed did not arrive during the de-fleaing, as I feared it would, but it did come the next day, adding to Sancho's trouble. He hadn't yet recovered from the ordeal of Thursday, and then he had to deal with the UPS man on the porch and the delivery of three huge packages and even more dismantling and moving of furniture. If there was ever a dog who needs a script for xanax, it is Sancho.