A big fat flea crawling on Pistol's head. Unmindful of the fact that it has been below freezing for days, or that there have been no fleas in this house for 2 weeks now, or that there is no reasonable way that the dog could have picked up said flea. It's like how in the Middle Ages they thought that bugs just appeared out of nowhere. I see what they're talking about. What eggs could there possibly be? Where have they been hiding?
The whole thing makes me want to sit down and cry. I am helpless. I am scarred and bloodied and beaten and overwhelmed by fucking bugs. There is no way around it. And I let this bundle of flea sleep in bed with me. Because there's no way I could say no to him. Sigh.
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