No Fleas on Betty.

Every month we have to administer Frontline flea treatment to our four cats. Dom and Dave are no trouble, Britney is disdainful and Betty, the smallest, is a nightmare. She moves quicker than your eyeballs can and has a sixth sense better than my eyesight. You only have to think about it and she’s slinking away, and any sign of intention she’s out the cat flap. This is how it went this evening. Mothermouse leaves the room, “I’m just going to make a hot chocolate.” “OK darling,” No that’s not believable I’d never say that ever, “OK. Oh look at the dirt on this table.” She returns, “It’s quite warm out.” “Really, that’s nice, I’ll just get up and adjust my slippers.” “Good idea.” “and go over here by the window.” I lunge at Betty sleeping peacefully on a chair. As my hands clasp the warm air of where she’s been she explodes vertically and, using my empty hands as purchase, travels up my arm over my shoulder across the room and behind the settee. Our element of surprise is well and truly lost. Mothermouse calls her from one end of the settee and she duly exits the other where I’m waiting hands akimbo. As they close around where she briefly was she’s round the table, past Mothermouse and back behind the settee. I meanwhile have slithered on the carpet, banged my knee on the table and fallen on the settee. This happens one more time and Betty is now mewing like she’s in front of a firing squad pleading for her life, behind the settee. We decide to reverse the procedure. I make a grab for her tail and Mothermouse collects her at the other end, and I do the administration. I swear when Mouthermouse finally let her go neither of us even saw where she went. But at least there’ll be no fleas on Betty for another month.