flightless hag

A chronicle of the adventures of birdwoman: a lonely, talentless freak who wanders the internet in search of entertainment.

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Location: Philly

I'm a 40-something married white female, survivor of weight watchers, avid reader of pulp. Dogs (not cats), extreme right (handed, not politics), ENTJ, alto, wanna-be knitter.

June 08, 2006

Killing Pests

When I was a kid, on the farm, we had a dog. Her name was Angel, and she was a great dog. We also had carpeting. A dog who runs on a farm and stays in a carpeted house is going to bring friends over, no matter how many flea-collars you use.

Fleas are a pain in the butt. They’re these little black dots that jump really really high, bite a lot, procreate like mad (their eggs can live for 24 hours, so if you poison, you’ve got to poison at least twice), and they’re really hard to kill.

You can squish and squeeze between your fingers as hard as you can: let up the pressure, and the little bugger starts moving around again. But, eventually, you figure out how to angle your thumbnail just right with the pad of your finger, and you kill that little bastard.

There’s a sick sense of satisfaction seeing that severed flea’s body. Especially as y our bites are itching.

I had that feeling today when I watched the news.

Bon voyage, al-Zarqawi! Hope it’s way too warm in your new locale! Sorry about the raisins!



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