Our three cats had suddenly developed frantic fidgets. It meant only one thing - fleas - and something had to be done about it!

I rolled all three in flea powder, not quite what they had in mind, and it precipitated a considerable degree of collateral damage. Three cats equals 60 razor-sharp claws. Throw in a finely-honed fang or two and you can guess who was to be on the losing end of things namely me. However, the end results had to be worth it.

Many days later, as I idly fiddled with my sticking plaster while one of the cats snoozed on my lap, I was enraged to suddenly spot a black speck, mocking me from the safety of an ample fold of skin on her neck.

Luckily, all three cats have either cream or lilac-coloured fur, so gatecrashers show up easily. As 1 gnashed my teeth and watched, another broke cover from behind an ear, strolled innocently across a back, and disappeared under a leg. My flea powder had been useless, so now I decided to approach the problem manually. It was to be face-to-face combat but at least I would have the satisfaction of a personal victory. It would undoubtedly take a lot of time but would be psychologically rewarding.


I dismissed the nit comb I had used on my children, as it was quite the wrong colour, and I had to maintain some standards. So I made a special trip to buy a flea comb and set to work. After a while,
I realized that however satisfying it was popping the parasites between my finger nails; too many were escaping to the sanctuary of the hearth rug. I had to refine my technique. As it was about seven o'clock by the time I decided to adjust my tactics, I poured myself an evening drink. (I am not allowed one before 7pm. I need firm boundaries!)

I assembled everything I needed - a tumbler full of water with a smidgen of lemon-flavoured and coloured washing up liquid to reduce surface tension so that my new friends would sink like stones; a white towel as a background to track down the escapees, and the tumbler of tasty dry white Chardonnay. Battle then commenced. We were all getting along swimmingly, except for the fleas who did not. The body count climbed to alarming proportions. I was ashamed to think of how many squatters the girls had been harbouring, but more cross at the common scruff bags with whom they must have mingled and from whom they had caught the beasts in the first place. My girls are 'Ies cremes de la creme'. I threw myself into the exercise with motivated vengeance.

The thrill of the chase was tangible. My pulse raced as the teeth of the comb swept through thick fur, up over necks, down leg slopes, under tummies, sweeping hordes of fleeing chitinous asylum seekers before it. Into the tumbler with them! Twenty, 30, 40... How many more? I was becoming drunk with success - not wine though, as I was too engrossed to remember to drink it.

About an hour later, when the pool of fleas really did appear to have dried up, and the tumbler was almost opaque with a suspension of the little bloodsuckers, I tried counting them. I got to several hundred and stopped. To show my appreciation I fished out a tin of cardboard chunks in jelly that masquerades as deluxe cat food for the girls. Then it was my turn. I relaxed, pleasantly exhausted, and took a large unladylike gulp of my wine. Well, nobody was looking! It slipped down very easily... initially. Crunchy washing-up liquid, even when flavoured with real lemon, tastes foul!

_{source Your Cat Mag.}