Fleas!

This one is about Rocket, the dog. The black and white pitbull-boxer-labrador-retriever mix who lives in our house. The animal shelter we heroically adopted him from five years ago billed him as a “lab mix.”

Which, I came to realize, is code for pitbull.  

“It’s not about the breed, it’s how they’re raised,” people assured me. 

“Treat him with love and you’ll get love in return.” 

Needless to say, our kids fell in love immediately. Tighe not so much.

So, we decided to keep him on a contingency basis. Any sign of aggression and he’d be gone.

But he was great! Affectionate, playful, adorable. And we hoped that Wally, his canine elder, easily the best behaved, most loving dog I’ve ever had, would keep him in line. Teach him the tricks, model exemplary behavior, and reprimand him when he got a little too wild or rambunctious. 

And for the most part, it worked. Next thing we knew he was an invaluable member of our family, and neither Tighe nor I could even fathom taking him back to the animal shelter. 

But then, a few months shy of Rocket’s first birthday, I found out I was pregnant with Lou, and whether it was hormones or my standard level of anxiety, I started having flashbacks to every single headline I’ve ever seen that involved a pitbull mauling a baby. 

“That would be bad,” I managed to convince Tighe.

So we invested several hundred dollars in dog training sessions at our house. We practiced lots of off-leash commands and calming tactics for both dogs. If we’re being honest, none of it stuck, but, as I do with most people, I enjoyed listening to the trainer’s life story, and Rocket and Wally enjoyed all the treats they were getting as rewards. So we kept at it. 

And at our last session, only a few short weeks from Lou’s due date, my growing belly and I pleaded with the trainer.

“Please tell me honestly. Do you have any concerns that he would be aggressive, that anyone who comes into our house, especially this new baby, would be in danger?”

“Oh, absolutely not,” she told me. 

She’s an expert. I trusted her. And she was 100% correct. 

When Lou was born, we did all the things you’re supposed to do to introduce a dog to a newborn and ease the dog’s apprehension. Tighe brought a blanket from the hospital for the dogs to sniff. We supervised them closely and made sure all their interactions were loving and amicable, not stressful.

Naturally, Wally was resentful and disinterested, as he always was with a new baby. But Rocket was curious and gentle, just like I’d hoped.

Which was why, as I made Rocket’s annual vet appointment last week, I made sure to schedule it for a time when Lou could join me. After all, he’s almost 4 now, and though his level of usefulness is up for debate, he’s passionate about Rocket, loves outings, and loves jobs and tasks. (He asked for a leaf blower for his birthday, bless his little heart)

When the big vet appointment day arrived, he asked me when we were leaving about a million times. And then he’d immediately remind Rocket, just to ease his anxiety.

“Rocket boy,” he’d say, “Erin says we have to leave in twenty minutes.” 

And as soon as I said, “Ope, Lou! It’s time to go!” he flicked off the episode of Paw Patrol he was watching, hopped down from the couch, and went to fetch Rocket.

Poor Rocket, who never goes anywhere, was nervous as heck. Unused to even riding in the car, he hopped in, glancing at me as he did so, as if to say, “Are you sure you meant me?”

He sat facing backwards in the second row captain seat, either not realizing that he was doing it all wrong or unsure of how to pivot his body around while the car was in motion. Lou found it all hysterical.

“It’s okay, Rocket boy, I’ll tell you what you’re missing.”

As though Rocket was just along for the scenic drive down Wornall Road. 

“He’s going to be scared,” I reminded Lou, “so I’ll need your help to keep him calm and tell him it’s okay.” 

“Got it!”

We sat in the exam room, waiting for the vet, while Rocket trembled and whimpered. The vet tech weighed him, took his heart rate and blood pressure, examined his prostate, and all the normal vet things. Except for the prostate thing, l guess. I don’t really know much about canine medical procedures. 

Aside from an updated rabies vaccination and general wellness check, I really wanted them to look at his skin. It was raw from scratching, with big patches where his hair was falling out. A few years ago, a previous vet had examined it and reported that it was an allergy. He told us it was likely seasonal—grass, perhaps?—and that there wasn’t much we could do except some occasional doses of Benadryl. 

So when his itching worsened this summer, I didn’t pay much attention to it; just upped the frequency of his Benadryl, assuming there was nothing else to do and we should just try to keep him comfortable. As morbid as that sounds. 

But this time, he was scratching until he bled. And the itching seemed non-stop, even keeping him up at night. 

When the vet knelt down, parting the hair with his fingers to get a closer look, Rocket startled and yelped while Lou patted him and spoke soothing words. Finally the vet grabbed a metal-toothed comb, and while Lou and I tried to keep him still, ran it across his back. 

“Ah-ha! Fleas! I got five of them right there in that quick swoop!”

“Bastards,” I whispered. I was disgusted, working backward in my brain, trying to recall the last time I administered his flea and tick prevention, and wondering how long he must have had them. 

But I was also partially relieved. Fleas are treatable! Controllable! Preventable! And they don’t really like to bite and bother people. 

And I felt guilty. I just kept blaming an acute grass allergy, kept ignoring all the scratching. This poor dog.

The vet sent us home with a hefty bill, some anti-allergy meds, medicated dog shampoo, a new, more effective flea prevention medication, and a to-do list. Deep cleaning, vacuuming, sanitizing, at-home grooming, dinner-making, all of it. Okay, the dinner making was a household request, not from the vet.

When we got home, Sam was at a friend’s house, Nate and Tighe were at football practice, and Tess was at soccer practice. Typical Thursday afternoon. And a perfect time for Lou and I to get to work. 

“We got this, Lou,” I said, offering a pep talk more for me than for him. Lou doesn’t need pep talks, he’s already pumped for any task the world throws at him.

“Alright, let’s start with the medication.”

I poked holes in the packaging while Lou fished some leftover chicken nuggets from the cheese drawer in the fridge. 

“I wish I could have some of these nuggets. With ketchup,” he said rather passively, probably hoping I’d toss one into his mouth.

“Uh, don’t,” I said. “Honestly, I don’t even remember when they’re from, so they’re probably not good anymore.”

I mean, good enough for a flea-ridden pitbull, but not for a three-year-old human.

I pulled the five nuggets from the bag, cut them into bite-sized pieces, and stuck them back into the plastic bag. Then I tucked two different pills inside some small pieces of the cold white meat, and gave them to Lou, who gave them to Rocket.

“Yessss!” Lou cheered. “He ate them! I can’t believe he ate his medicine!” 

“Well, overcome your shock, Lou. Now it’s time to give him a bath.”

I handed him the nugget bag and told him to bring Rocket upstairs. 

“Come on, boy,” he said, leaving a trail of small chicken pieces up the steps to the second floor. 

But that’s as far as Rocket would go.

Still shaken from the vet visit, he no longer trusted that Lou and I had his best interest at heart.

“Rocket boy!” he sang. “Come get in the tub!” 

He dug his fist into the bag and tossed all the remaining pieces into the empty tub.

Ew. Not exactly what I intended, but okay. 

“Come on, Rocket,” I ordered, ignoring his PTSD and swiping for his collar so I could drag him into the bathroom.

After three or four attempts, and a lot of verbal encouragement from Lou, I finally got hold of the worn blue collar and pulled him down the hall while Lou slammed the door, trapping him in the bathroom with us, his new sworn enemies. 

“Phew!” I was already exhausted. 

Now to get him in the tub.

I tried coaxing him with the nugget crumbs currently disintegrating on the bottom of the tub, but to now avail. He was officially unyielding. I was going to have to take him by force, with the help of Lou, my faithful assistant.

I scooped him up, all 60 pounds of him, and put him in the tub. It was awkward and clumsy, and I nearly broke my arm in the process, as I slammed my elbow down onto the porcelain edge of the tub. Not wanting to get flea dander on the plush bathmats, I had slid them out of the way, to the far corner of the bathroom. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but it kept me from getting any traction as I tried to wrestle the muscular beast. Together, we slipped and slid all over the tile floor.

Rocket’s very strong, and honestly, Lou wasn’t actually that much help. 

He was more the cheerleader type in this particular operation.

“You got it, Mom! It’s okay, Rocket boy! We’ll get you clean!”

Now I had Rocket in the tub, but he was so reluctant, that I had to pin him down with both arms. I realized I didn’t know where I’d left the shampoo, nor had I brought a towel. Each time I removed my arm from his back, he’d move to leap from the tub and I had to brace him with my shoulder.

“Lou!” I’d have to rely on Lou this time unless I wanted to wrestle Rocket into the tub all over again.

“Can you hand me the shampoo?”

“Sure! Which one?”

I couldn’t see it from my kneeling position next to the tub, and I didn’t trust Rocket’s complacency well enough to turn around and look for it.

“The new one we got from the vet. It’s a white bottle, it’s literally the only bottle in this bathroom. I either put it on the toilet… or on the sink… or on the floor…”

“Got it!” He was so triumphant.

I twisted off the cap with my mouth, only to realize it had a foil seal underneath.

How the heck am I going to manage this with one hand?

Fortunately, Lou knelt down next to me and was using both hands to massage Rocket’s head, telling him it’s okay, it’s just a bath.

It gave me just enough time to peel off the foil and pour it down his back, very gently so I didn’t startle Rocket. The directions recommended leaving it on for five to ten minutes, but I’d be happy with three. I don’t know whether it was the medicated shampoo, Lou’s tender dog whispering, or the gentle massage of the lukewarm water, but after a few minutes, Rocket seemed pacified.

As I rinsed off the suds, I remembered I didn’t bring in a towel.

“Lou, I need you to bring me a towel.”

“Okay! From the laundry room?”

There were two piles of towels in the laundry room at that moment. One pile of plush bath towels and another of pool towels still clinging to a fading sense of purpose in mid-September. I didn’t really want dog hair and flea dander on either one, but I remembered there was a faded red towel that was probably near the end of its life, so I told him to grab that one.

“Oh,” he said, disappointed, “but that one’s not really soft for Rocket.”

“Yeah, I don’t really care.”

And that was all the convincing it took. Lou ran and did as he was told, and together, we blotted Rocket dry and released him from the bathroom. Rocket did that desperate, exhilarated nose dive to the carpet that freshly bathed dogs do, while I unlodged soggy chicken nuggets from the bathtub drain. 

“Get him a treat, Lou!” Which happens to be one of Lou’s favorite activities. And Rocket’s.

I spent the next 24 hours deep cleaning, vacuuming, sanitizing, washing, and administering the next rounds of medications. The vet had predicted Rocket would be noticeably less miserable within two or three days, and I had to admit he was right! He seemed better the very next day. And hopefully his hair will grow back.

“As for the flea eggs,” he had told me, grimly, “that will take roughly seven to nine months to fully eradicate from your house. Vacuum constantly, wash everything as frequently as possible, bathe him regularly, and don’t give up on the preventative medicine.”

“Cool, cool,” I said, trying to remain as cool as possible as this glorified doctor assigned me more homework than I’d ever had in my life.

So, if anyone needs me (or Lou), we’ll be flea bombing our house for seven to nine months. Or putting it on the market. Or burning it to the ground. Either one. Anything for Rocket.

_____________________________________________________________________

Postscript. The next afternoon, around 4pm, I called Lou into the kitchen to help me give Rocket his next round of medicine. It was the exact same routine as the day before. One allergy pill and one pill to treat the already existing flea infestation on his body. I cut a cold chicken nugget in half and buried one pill in the meat on each side. Then I handed the first half to Lou. To give to Rocket. 

He paused. “What is this medicine for again?”

“To treat the fleas on his body.”

“Oh, right.”

And with that, he took the nugget and began rubbing it along Rocket’s backside, thus “treating the fleas.” At least, in his mind.

“Lou!” I couldn’t even believe what I was seeing.  “No! He needs to eat the pill!”

Was he messing with me? Or did he sincerely believe this stale chicken nugget massage would alleviate the itching?

I guess I could understand that misconception if this had been Lou’s first time doling out medicine to a dog. But between his heartworm meds, Benadryl addiction, and the doses of the same pills we’d given him the day before, I thought he had the hang of it. I thought he was an honorary veterinarian. But, alas, he’s just a three-year-old Amelia Bedelia.