Fleas

My apartment has been infested by fleas.

Pesky, irritating, biting, disease-spreading vermin

that prick and crawl and leap and spread.

Purveyors of the plague,

the tiny terrors.

And so I've declared a crusade on the cretins

and begun amassing an armory:

- A brand new vacuum

- Flea spray

- Flea powder

- Flea traps

- Righteous indignation

With these tools, I go to work.

Powder, vacuum, spray.

Powder, vacuum, spray.

Day, after day, after day,

after day.

But still they persist.

Invading, gnawing, laying eggs.

Their next generation of impish delinquents

left to inherit my home,

likely to outlast me by a Millenia.

In my attempt to know my enemy,

I've researched some facts about fleas:

- They can survive 24 hours without air

- They can survive 150 days without food

- Their pupal form is resistant to heat, cold, and pesticides

- They can lay 50 eggs per day

- 30-60% of Europe was killed by the Bubonic Plague

With these facts in mind,

I've gained a certain respect for them.

What a cruel world a flea enters -

hated by man and beast alike.

Scratched at, crushed, gnawed, gassed, vacuumed.

Millions of years of evolution,

culminating in the creation of a pest that persists,

despite my animosity and conviction.

They survive and thrive and spread

and taunt me endlessly.

"Am I wrong to hold such resentment

towards one of God's creatures,"

I think as I

powder, vacuum, spray,

day, after day, after day.