So, I’m the lucky gal that gets to wake up every day next to this guy.
In the mornings, Spudlee and I do a fair amount of cuddling. Or more accurately, I cuddle and he tolerates it. When I get out of bed, he gets breakfast - which is of way more interest to Spud than almost anything, except maybe a chihuahua.
A few mornings ago, our cuddle began with Spudlee backin dat ass up (so to speak), so his butthole was just all the way in my face. Thanks bud.
Anticipating an untimely Frenchie fart, I flipped him on his back - at least this way, said fart would point down a bit. Some belly scratches and general adorableness later, I noticed what I at first believed to be dirt. It was scattered around on his - how do I put this - his taint-al area?
At first I’m like, whatevs. Dogs be dirty. If I were a dog, I too would have a dirty taint. You sit in dirt, that’s what happens.
Then the dirt moved.
And I realized, with the full force of my natural hypochondria, that my dog has fleas.
Fast forward through some homeopathic treatments and I’m standing in the flea & tick aisle at Petco, frantically Googling:
“French bulldog flea spray allergies”
“Frenchie Advantage or Frontline reaction”
“French bulldog Adams flea and tick bath review”
A woman in a Petco uniform appears, and looks calmly into my crazy eyes. “You got fleas?”
I manage not to cry in her arms on the spot, and she advises me to get a flea bomb and some shampoo. I go full hog and add some organic spray and Advantage to the basket. I come home, prepared to have at it with Spud.
Spudlee’s LEAST favorite thing in the world is encountering any bodily cleaning agent. Baby wipes? Horrendous. Bathtime? Might as well be doggie-waterboarding, given the force of his terror and offense. If you come at him with a towel, congrats, you’re officially Satan. It usually takes a lot of soothing words and firm grasps from both Russell and I to trick Spud into getting clean.
So with Russ out for the night, Spudlee’s flea bath was mostly a jiu-jitsu match. After sparring for a bit, he reluctantly submitted* to cleansing. Then he watched with confused fascination as I tore through my home, vacuuming, laundering, and misting everything solid with clove-oil spray.
Now my whole house smells like a stick of Big Red. I’m beat. Spudlee and his tidy taint are resting peacefully on his freshly scoured doggie bed. I hear that fleas have a month long life cycle, and I must remain cautious, hyper clean and vigilant.
Truth be told, he’ll probably be nestled up in the bed with me momentarily. Who can resist a farty little legume cuddled up next to you in the mornings? With eyes like that, I’ll take the flea risk. Even if it means another round of cleaning tomorrow. Silver lining: That kind of frenetic, scrub-til-it-shines clean-frenzy makes me feel my genetics. Like I’m full scale channeling my mother as I sponge down the counters with powder bleach.
*He did not actually submit. He occasionally sat still enough for me to wash him for three second increments.