Tom Robinson's got unwelcome company ...
A home isn't a home without a pussycat curled up purring in front of the hearth - and until recently ours was a fat, placid tabby of advancing years called Jarvis. That was BNC: Before New Cat ... a small, neurotic and maddening animal I refuse to dignify with a gender or name. It was supposed to be company for Jarvis. Jarvis moved out within weeks and now lives with strangers a few streets away.
And soon our three year old daughter was covered in red angry weals. Flea bites! "Infested", "flea-ridden" the very words make you feel so dirty. Black, unsquashable dots appeared on your ankles from nowhere, only to vault off again before you feel the bite. The only sure way to despatch the little blighters is to grab each one between your fingertips and drown it in a cup of water.
After several days wrangling with Wandsworth Pest Control, Ricky finally arrived - tall, slim and smiling in a blue polo shirt - his name embroidered fetchingly above one nipple. We had uselessly hoovered the house and stacked our furniture in the garden. Ricky now pulled on surgical gloves, primed his action spraygun, and set to work obliterating insect life in every cranny of the house.
My partner trapped and treated the cat - brushing its fur up the wrong way, spraying with insecticide until wet the drying thoroughly with a towel.. She slipped a flea collar round it's neck for good measure and got off lightly - we felt - with no more than one really serious gash.
And all this has had an interesting effect on The Cat, It's given up persecuting small wildlife in the garden, mews for food only when it's bowl is empty and is no doubt hoping we'll remove the flea collar soon for good behaviour.
In your feline dreams.
