Fleas and Feathers

Fleas and Feathers   

Susan Kohn Green

Counting the fleas

As I picked them,

One my one,

Off our little white poodle, Jolie,

And ran with each

Between finger and thumb

To the bathroom to drop it  -

Into the toilet and let it drown –

Poor thing -

Yes, this happens in New York, too -

There were just seven that I found moving

Over her pink belly, one by her ear,

Just after she had been to the groomers

For a haircut

And her nightly walk in the park.

I could actually see the dots -

Jump.

I think seven was it - but of course

The next course of action was to spray:

The furniture, the rugs, the floors,

Her beds and pillows

And vacuum it all.

And wash her in flea shampoo

Oh, she loved that!

“I thought I just did this,”

She said  - shaking.

Then wash the sheets – twice, since I did find

A couple of dead ones as I peeled the duvet cover.

From the comforter.

Oh, yes, the duvet cover had to come off

After I called the vet and asked if

I had to wash the comforter, too.

“Yes”, she said, “I would.”

The comforter is an old friend;

Maybe thirty years worth,

And I must admit, it has been showing it’s age

A few feathers seeping through the seams,

But I shoved it into the washing machine

And then into the dryer

Along with the fluffer-upper

Of old rubber tennis shoes.

Which would distribute the feathers evenly

Throughout the quilt.

And then the moment:

The removal of the comforter, old friend,

From the dryer.

The door opened.

Feathers,

Hundreds of them, like a high snow blizzard

Sprayed from the machine.

Handfulls of them flew across the brown linoleum,

Drifting, flittering, fluttering.

Into the hallway,

Over the counters.

And when I reached into the machine,

Thousands more escaped my clutches

Spreading into the air and floating.

Eluding.

Have you ever swept up feathers?

Well, neither did I.

I wet paper towels and hunted them down.

Each and every one.

And in the end my husband and I,

Opened a huge plastic bag

Over the crumpled mound that had been our comforter

And shoved it in,

Feathers still insisting on

Escaping through the crumbling seams.

Now it sits on top of the garbage can

Ensconced in a clear plastic wrap.

Waiting for Ricki to pick it up and take it away.

And I hope, that when it is sitting on the sidewalk,

No one will think, passing by,

“Gee, I could use that,”

And take it home,

Open the top –

Oh, you know what would happen.

Oh, just picture that.