OMG! Bucks has fleas! Look at him scratching. He’ll be sure
to leave them everywhere, and then I’ll
have them. This is not good. I had fleas once and they gave me such a haircut.
It was embarrassing. My pelt is perfect now; two layers of fur, so beautiful .
. . like mink . . . easy for fleas to find a nice home in.
“You’ve got
fleas.” I tell him. “Always scratching . . . probably got them from your buddy,
Boots.”
“I don’t, I’m
not, and I didn’t.”
“You are,
you do and you did.” I tell him. This is
kind of fun.
“I don’t,”
he says.
“Okay. Let’s
see you prove it.”
“How?”
“Let me see
you keep from scratching for about . . . let’s say, 800 heart beats . . . something like ten
minutes more or less. I’ll count my beats.”
“How do I
know you’ll get it right?”
“Count
yours if you want. I assume you’ll be honest, but I’ll be making my own count. Let
me get comfortable, here on this chair . . .” I leap up gracefully. “Where I
can keep an eye on you.”
* * *
Bucks barely
makes it through 300 beats. “You’ve got fleas,” I tell him calmly with my best
sarcastic tone. He knows I’m right, but hasn’t thought of a response yet.
“I refuse
to have another bath!” he says. “Cats don’t need baths.”
“Some do.
Or you might be in for a buzz cut. Remember when I got mine? You said I looked
like a Chihuahua.”
“Mrrow,” he
says.
“Yah,
right. Just please stay off my floor of the cat tree.”
“I want the
top floor,” he says.
“Fine with
me, just say off the bottom floor and
the bed,” I add.
“Beds are
for females. Males like me and boots go for altitude, so we can to see what’s
going on.”
“I’m going
to take a nap—on the bed,” I’ll him. “Catch your act later.”
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