Oh dog, I'm in trouble again today. My female human came home from work yesterday pleased as punch with a new black and silver friendship bracelet she'd got from a swanky London store. I know what you are thinking - the dog ate it? Nope. He buried it? No. Worse.
After wearing it all evening and retiring to bed - which, by the way, I've fully charmed my way back into after yesterday's attempts to make us sleep (shock horror) 'downstairs' were foiled - we all settled down for a kip. Me in my usual spot on the edge of the bed, with Mrs S 'spooned' up behind me, her head on my pillow behind mine, and her arm under my head helpfully supporting my neck.
I was busy dreaming about roast chicken when jeez - the commotion was enough to wake the whole street (and they complain about the odd woof from us!).... its her wrist, and its itching and burning and covered in spots....
Oh dear, I thinks. She's been had, this bracelet is a dud. Man, she's gonna be so cross. And then I snuggle back down and forget all about it.
Next thing I know, the room is floodlit and I'm being grabbed by the scruff of my neck and hauled into the bathroom for 'an inspection'.... apparently I have fleas! FLEAS!! I'm mortified. Horrified. Aghast.
I try to explain that if I DO have fleas (and at this moment in time it's still under investigation) we all know where I got them from - THEM BLOODY CATS! It's the hairy one. I know it.
But will she listen? Of course not, I'm hoiked back into the bedroom, forced to lie on a large floor cushion for the rest of the night and sleep only fitfully with their last words ringing in my ears....horrible, nasty, bitey creatures (and by this I assume they mean the fleas, and not the spaniels)....vets....flea treatment....it will cost a fortune..... and oh dear dog......BATH......
I will get my revenge - the cats will pay.
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