This is the second in a series about "the barber's dog." You can read part one here.
The barber's dog has fleas.
This is a recent development and the situation has begun to impact our time together. We used to while away the lunch hour playing a game. (I toss a treat through the fence. He sniffs around earnestly to find it. Repeat.) These days, he's only good for a few tosses before he goes back to biting at his hind legs. Or wriggling on his back against the gritty cement.
When he's close enough for me to assist, I reach in and scratch that flea-infested dermis. I doubt a veterinarian would say that's the healthiest approach for him in the long run, but I'm desperate for the barber's dog to know some relief.
Even if it's just temporary.
I rarely see the people who live above the barber shop, so a few months ago, I left them a note. It was full of exclamation points and happy sounding words to drive home the point that I'm harmless. In no way a crazy person or a bleeding-heart busybody or a mildly peculiar middle-aged woman with nothing better to do. It said, basically: