There are a couple of scratches on my left forearm, a few small ones on my hands, and a truly impressive set of claw marks on my right arm. Fortunately most of them are fairly superficial.
We've been combating a flea problem. We don't have many fleas, but there are a few and Adored Wife is militantly trying to eradicate them. We've bombed the house twice, we've put down flea traps, we've ruthlessly and regularly powdered the carpet, vacuumed, and repeated. We're still getting a couple of fleas a day in the traps. Kind of mystified.
So, last night we gave the cat a bath. Again. And when I say "we" I mean "I." The girls watched. I'd given him a flea bath a few weeks ago and it wasn't too bad, because he had no idea what to expect. I had him in, shampooed, washed, and out before he knew what hit him, and then he was free to run with mad indignation through the house.
This time I was trying to do a more thorough job. And he was on guard for it when I brought him into the bathtub.
I don't know if you've ever tried to restrain a panicking, soaking wet, small whirling yowling tornado full of razor blades, but if you have you might have some idea of what I was up against.
I got him bathed because I was GOING to get him bathed and I'm too stubborn to let a few battle wounds stop me. But, yeah, I was bleeding at the end of the encounter and Oscar was dripping wet and ill as a hornet.
Hopefully he's flea-free today. But if not it still makes a lively story to tell.
Hope all's well out there, friends, and God bless.
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