"Only an overgrown mop-head like you would be stupid enough."

If the flea-bitten furball I share my house with could talk, he'd probably have a barb or two like that for me.

To recap, yesterday I discovered Percy tried to make friends with some fleas, and now they're walking all over him.

Why wasn't he treated? That falls squarely on the foolish first-time cat owner, who acted as if an indoor cat couldn't fall prey to those parasitic beasties. Through the pixels of the window screen, hitchhiking on one of my plants and sneaking through the door behind me ... I don't know how they got in, I only know they're irritating the one creature on this planet that relies on me to look out for it.

He's itching constantly, I'm ripe with sympathy itches (I hope) and I want to burn every shred of fabric in my apartment so these damned things never return to plague my littlest fair-weather friend.

He usually doesn't like me touching his face; he barely resisted as I combed him last night, whether from exhaustion or instinct telling him I was actually helping.

I treated him with this herbal oil mixture that's done little except stink the house with an odium of peppermint and cinnamon. I'm ready to bomb the house if it comes to that. A surgical strike might be the only chance to wipe them out for good.

But considering it touts its ability to repel and kill fleas, and the littlest friend still scratches and gnaws, I think it's healing abilities might be best described as rhyming with "Maloney."