Did you know that, hypothetically speaking, if your three yorkie babies were infested with fleas and you were to chase said hypothetical fleas around said furry bellies until you land one on your thumb nail and then quickly roll your other thumb nail over their fat, nasty little brown creepiness they actually pop. It's the only way that I can be sure that they are dead without actually touching them. I least I can't feel myself touching them. In any case, its GROSS. Why, oh why, am I fighting a flea epidemic in NOVEMBER. I mean really... Thanksgiving is next week, for pete's sake. (Not sure who Pete is, or why we should consider his sake but, whatever) The dog next door is a pitiful example of pet ownership. He is a sad, sorry, scruffy big dog who apparently is inviting the resident flea population to come to his place and my cutie pies keep getting too close and picking up these disease ridden parasites. Last weekend I spent somewhere in the neighborhood of $50 on all kinds of sprays and shampoos and drops and gadgets to make them go away.
Yikes... I could have gone to Red Lobster. In the mean time, I'm praying for cold enough nights to kill off the little buggers.