One of the things I hate about adulthood is becoming an expert in something that you really couldn’t care less about.
For example, I couldn’t care less about fleas or flea eggs or how long flea larvae can lie dormant in your hamper. I don’t care to know that if, for example, your cat’s fleas lay eggs on your husband’s Verona tam from his recent graduation ceremony and the eggs hatch, that the larvae will still wave to you from under the magnifying glass even after you’ve put said tam in the microwave for 45 seconds.
I don’t care to figure out how long it takes the fleas to die after you’ve applied the toxic gel to the scruff of your cats’ necks. I didn’t really want to know that the gel is filled with hormones that stop the fleas’ reproductive cycles and that it makes the cats a little wonky, too.
I didn’t need to know that flea bites itch because we are allergic to flea saliva.
Of course, I’m not exactly an expert. Only time will tell if there are eggs hidden in couch cushions or if one really does need to wash everything in hot water rather than cold. If the toxic hormonal gel really does work for a month. If Dawn dish washing liquid really does keep fleas off the cats.
There are other unanswered questions. Just how long did the cats have fleas before we noticed, anyway? Is this something that’s slowly been escalating for months but we’d done just enough cleaning (until recently) to prevent an outbreak? Or is it like fruit flies—one brownish banana and the two flies you saw at breakfast have become legion by evening?
I don’t think I need to know. But if I find out, I’ll pass the info along.