From the Good Earth

It was this time last year when we moved into our apartment. Much warmer, then, as I can remember. A few more new shoots and forsythia emerging from the frost.

"Boy, this yard needs a good raking," I thought.

Our dog and cat were happy for the yard, and promptly took to christening it with poop. I took to cleaning the poop and the leaves, and cutting back the overgrown vines on our big old maple tree.

"Spring again...time for a flea bath and a collar for the cat!" After noticing a couple little flea bites on my hand, it was obviously time.

"Damn these flea bites," I repeated days later. "There are even more now!"

I take a break from the yard work. Another flea bath, dog and cat both. Spray the carpet. Wash the blankets.

The next day, while still raking and planting flowers: "I can’t understand why these fleas won’t die! Where are they, I don’t even see them but there are bites on my legs now!"

Another flea bath. My cat is now wet more times than he is dry. He fears the bathroom. My dog fears the hose.

"That’s it!" I say, both hands red from scratching and eyes red from waking up itchy. "We’re not this ghetto. What the hell is going on? Are these Biblical Fleas??"

My husband, biteless and losing sympathy, finally turns on the light bulb over my head.

“Let me see your hands,” he commands.

“Those aren’t flea bites,” he quips.

“Why not?” I look confused.

“Pus.” He recoils in horror.

“Pus?” Pustules, to be exact, I see upon further examination.

“Yard work,” he suggests.

“What?” The last shred of hope slips away…

“Three leaves. Shiny.”

And thus disappeared into oblivion one last shred of childhood naivity.

At least I wasn’t peeing in the woods.