Grandpop is going to kill me but... he's got fleas. No, no. Not Grandpop himself. But his dogs, and therefore his house. Not a lot. Just a few. But it's enough.
I guess they don't play on the floor with the dogs all that often, so haven't noticed. But with a lil one in tow, I'm on the floor all of the time. And there are fleas on the floor. I've got the bites to prove it. So does Billy.
And yesterday Billy broke out into hives. He had them again today. I knew the doctor couldn't really do anything for him- you've got hives- but I took him anyway, just it case. The likely culprit? Flea bites.
I didn't even know you could be allergic to fleas. But given the welts Billy gets from mosquito bites, I can't say I'm surprised. So, yeah, Billy appears to be allergic to Eastern Shore Fleas.
A funny story for you from my past...
That same house at the beach was empty for a number of years, including the year I graduated from high school. So a good friend and I drove down, intending to stay there for Senior Week right after graduation. We arrived late at night and hauled everything up into a bedroom to unpack. Just then, we noticed the floor was hopping. Like the floor was a giant vibrating speaker hopping. When I say fleas, I mean FLEAS. That area has a big problem with fleas. And since the house had been empty, it was full of them. We drove out to an open gas station- about the only thing open at that hour- and bought a box of trash bags to seal all of our stuff into. When we were finished, flea-bitten and exhausted, we cuddled up into my friend's compact car in the driveway and fell fast asleep until morning, when we sought out other accomodations.
And that's my flea story...