Meg was sitting on the couch, flipping through Outlander for the 547th time, when she felt the first prickling sting on her ankle. She scratched absentmindedly, but moments later, another bite landed on her wrist. Then another on her neck.
"Oh, for heaven's sake," Meg muttered, slapping at her arm. "What's biting me?"
Susan, who was lounging after a long day of proper Britishness, heard the commotion while having her boots kicked up on the coffee table. Her own arm had started itching as well. Slowly, she scratched at her elbow, her brow furrowing with a sense of eerie familiarity.
Then it hit her.
"Fleas," Susan announced grimly, dropping her boots to the floor.
Meg turned to her, horrified. "Fleas? Are you serious? How do you even know that?"
Susan rolled up her sleeve to reveal a faint cluster of red welts. "When you grow up with sheep, you learn to spot flea bites pretty quick. I've been through this before, several times per year actually, Meg. It's fleas, alright. But these aren't sheep fleas—their bites are nowhere near as painful, just itchy."
"Fleas?! In my house?!" Meg sprang to her feet, scratching furiously now.
"And we'd better figure out the source before we're eaten alive!" warned Susan.
The two women looked around the room, as though the culprit might reveal itself. Then a loud, self-satisfied meow came from the windowsill, where Leo, the cat, was perched.
Meg gasped. "It's him! That filthy feline! He must've brought them in!"
Susan nodded knowingly. "Of course it was Leo. This amount of fur is a magnet for fleas!"
Leo, oblivious to the accusations, scratched his neck with his leg and blinked at them with regal indifference.
"That's it," Meg declared. "We're getting rid of these fleas. No matter what it takes!"
The plan started simply enough. Meg decided she would comb the fleas out of Leo's fur. She rummaged through a drawer and triumphantly produced an old-fashioned, ornate comb.
"Is that ginger hair stuck in it?" Susan asked, raising an eyebrow.
"It's a family heirloom! And besides, I never bothered using it, so why not now?" Meg snapped defensively.
Leo, however, disagreed. The moment Meg approached him with the comb, he hissed and swatted at it, his tail puffing up like a bottlebrush.
"Come now, Leo," Meg cooed. "This won't hurt a bit."
But Leo wasn't buying it. When Meg tried to brush him, he bit her hand with surprising precision and darted under the couch, leaving her yelping in pain.
"Your cat is a menace," Susan said, shaking her head.
"You're one to talk," Meg retorted, cradling her bitten hand.
Susan stood, cracking her knuckles. "Alright, my turn. I'll do it the Toadclack way, just like my great-grandma taught me."
Meg hesitated. "Wasn't your great-grandma the one who once got drunk and lost a fistfight to a goose?"
"That's not the point," Susan said. "And besides, that aggressive poultry cheated!"
Susan went to the bathroom to prepare it. The smell of bleach became noticeable as Susan scrubbed the toilet bowl with a ferocity that bordered on obsession. Indeed, the fumes started to mess with her judgment, since it took her over two minutes to figure out that the orange stains she was scrubbing were just the reflection of her hair.
When she was done, the porcelain gleamed so brightly it practically doubled as a mirror.
"What on earth are you doing?" Meg asked, peeking in from the doorway.
"Preparing the battlefield," Susan said ominously, tossing the scrub brush aside.
She then rattled the box of dry cat food to lure the cat into the trap. The moment he entered the room, Susan grabbed Leo and hauled him into the toilet.
"Now, hold still, you little flea hotel!" Susan barked as she slammed the lid onto the toilet seat.
Leo let out an earsplitting yowl as Susan held down the lid and began flushing the toilet again and again and again.
"SUSAN!" Meg shrieked, rushing into the room.
"What?" Susan said defensively. "It's how my great-grandma used to deal with fleas on the sheep. Water pressure works wonders."
Meg stared at her in disbelief. "You can't just—oh my god! Did you even use flea shampoo?"
Susan blinked. "Uh... no?"
Meg threw her hands up. "Then what's the point?! All you'll get is a soaked pussy!"
She yanked the toilet lid open, and Leo exploded out like a furry cannonball, yowling and dripping wet. In his panic, he jumped at Meg, clawing her temple and yanking her ginger hair into a tangled mess that somewhat resembled the hair of the late Coolio.
Susan bit back a laugh. "Well, at least he's out of the toilet."
Meg wasn't having any of it and yelled "That's it, Susan! Tonight, you're sleeping in the henhouse!"
Sitting on an overturned bucket in the henhouse, Susan furiously swatted at the fleas that continued their relentless attack.
"I can't believe Meg made me sit in the henhouse! And we don't even have bloody chickens! Stupid creator! First she makes my room disappear, now conveniently a henhouse appears outside the house... How about next time you make a jacuzzi appear? Or will you once again say that you can't do that since it's not 'in the budget'?" said Susan with air quotes, finishing her completely normal and totally not deranged conversation with the air around her.
Susan peeked out at the henhouse, her eyes narrowing as she looked through which window she could see Meg.
"Alright, Susan," she muttered, rubbing her arms. "You've fought worse. Stay focused."
She grabbed a twig and scratched out a battle plan in the dirt. "Step one: Find the target. Step two: Eliminate the parasites. Step three: Drink victory tea."
As she said that a particularly aggressive flea bit her ankle, making her yelp and slap at it. Scowling, she took another glance at the house and saw movement through the attic window.
Meg coughed as she pushed aside dusty old boxes, searching for anything that could help.
"Come on, something useful—" She paused as her eyes landed on a bottle of flea shampoo. Triumphantly, she snatched it up—then squinted at the faded label.
Expiration Date: 2003.
She grimaced. "Yeah… probably shouldn't use that." But she shoved it into her pocket. Desperate times, last resorts, and all that.
Digging further, she unearthed a flea comb, an electric shaver, and a small collection of essential oils.
She smirked. "Perfect. Time for round two."
Meg tiptoed toward Leo, stretching out one hand, her other arm hidden behind her back.
"Nice kitty… good kitty…"
Leo narrowed his eyes. He wasn't stupid.
Just as Meg lunged, Leo darted towards the front door, leapt onto the handle, and pushed it down. The door swung open.
Meg's jaw dropped. "You opened it?!"
Leo shot her a smug look and sprinted outside.
"Oh no, you don't!" Meg bolted after him, pushing herself to run faster.
But just as she was about to grab him, Leo suddenly turned, darted between her legs like a tiny, furry torpedo, and before she could fully turn around, the door swung shut.
Click.
Meg froze.
She was locked out.
From the henhouse, Susan watched the entire scene. Then, in the most exaggerated chicken impression she could muster, she clucked, "So, Meg, do you need a chicken to get to the other side of the door? BUC! BUC!"
Meg sighed. "Yes."
Susan smirked and strutted toward the door, holding her arms like she was doing the chicken dance. "Luckily for you, breaking into things runs in my family."
She pulled out a bobby pin, a safety pin, and—mysteriously—a small crowbar, and within seconds, the door clicked open.
"Generations of strategic asset retrieval have saved my family from bankruptcy for centuries," she said proudly.
Inside, Leo was napping peacefully in the hall. But when the door burst open, he sprang to his feet.
"Leonardo!" Meg bellowed as she brandished the flea comb in one hand and the essential oils in the other.
Susan grinned and gripped the electric shaver like a futuristic weapon.
"This does bring up some past nostalgia. Say your prayers, pussy cat!" Susan yelled.
Cue the Benny Hill theme music.
Leo shot off like a rocket.
What followed was a chase so chaotic it defied physics.
Leo instantly ran up the stairs, with Meg and Su right behind him. Meg sprayed the essential oils the whole time, hitting Susan in the face, and causing her to trip and roll down the stairs like a log. Meg continued to run after the cat, knocking everything over and making a mess that not even a zoo escape could have caused.
Meanwhile, Susan ran up the stairs again, barefoot on one foot, due to her shoe landing who knows where during her gravity test on the stairs. As soon as she went to the next floor Susan stepped on LEGOs and let out a scream that could be heard three counties away. Jumping on one foot and waving her arms around Susan got the electric shaver tangled in the curtains. The motor yanked the fabric up, wrapping her inside like a demented burrito, before hoisting her to the ceiling. She dangled for a moment before crashing down with an anvil-like thud.
Meg breaking half of the things on the second floor chased Leo back to the first floor. As soon as she ran into the kitchen she tripped over a cable, launching herself headfirst into an open refrigerator. Leo didn't just master opening the front door, but the fridge door as well!
With yogurt all over her face and chicken eggs in her mouth she jumped back, scanning the kitchen with a look like she was the Terminator. Detecting the feline on the kitchen corner she jumped towards him, but Leo jumped too and went right over her head landing on the kitchen table. There he knocked over a vase, which Meg instinctively tried to catch—only to trip and land face-first into a fish pie Susan made earlier. Meg wiped the fish head crust off her face and noticed Leo back on the kitchen corner. She launched towards him with the flea comb in her hand, but instead of hitting the cat, she got it stuck in the toaster, getting electrocuted and launched across the kitchen. If nothing else she was now at least smoking hot.
In the meantime, Susan finally got up from second gravity test, with her butt now as blue as Uranus. She noticed Leo at the bottom of the stairs and ran after him, while he turned around and ran outside. In a dramatic act of feline vengeance, Leo pulled the exact same move on Susan that he did on Meg—darting between her legs and slamming the door shut.
Now Susan was locked outside. Fuming, Susan cracked her knuckles. "Fine. I'll take the high ground."
She climbed onto the roof, cackling like a madwoman.
"The fat man in red better not sue me for copyright infringement!" she declared, preparing to slide down the chimney.
There was one problem. Susan had eaten too many mince pies over the years and got stuck halfway down.
Inside, Meg, still recovering from mild electrocution noticed soot trickling down the fireplace.
Her brain immediately jumped to one conclusion.
"He's in the chimney."
Determined to smoke Leo out, she grabbed some leftover New Year's fireworks and lit them.
A massive rocket shot up and hit Susan.
There was a blinding flash of sparks as Susan, clinging to the firework, soared over the moon like some unhinged Mary Poppins.
Gravity eventually did its job, and Susan crashed back down—this time successfully making it through the chimney.
The impact of this stunt combined with the exploding fireworks filled the whole house with soot and smoke. The sheer force knocked the front door off its hinges.
As Meg and Susan coughed through the wreckage, Leo, also covered in soot, let out a little hacking sound and coughed up a furball.
Susan, wheezing, spotted the flea shampoo lying nearby and grabbed the chance. She snatched it up and, before anyone could stop her, squeezed the entire bottle onto Leo.
A moment of silence followed. Then—all of Leo's fur fell off.
Meg picked up the bottle and read the small print. "Warning: Do not use without water. May cause complete fur loss."
Susan shrugged. "So we have a Sphynx for a few months. Big deal. At least the fleas are dead."
Except… The fleas weren't dead. Hundreds of them wriggled free from Leo's discarded fur.
"What?" shouted Susan not believing her eyes.
"The flea shampoo is over 20 years old. Looks like the insecticide expired" commented Meg.
"Oh bollocks, what are we supposed to do now?" asked Susan.
Then, as if on cue, a long-haired stray dog wandered into the house due to the commotion attracting it.
The fleas sensing a proper feast swarmed towards the mutt. The dog let out a startled yelp and sprinted out of the house.
Meg and Susan stared as their hundreds of unintentional pets disappeared into the distance.
"Finally the house is pest free" sighed Susan
"Indeed, no more itching, no more scratching..." commented Meg.
"No more chasing, no more mayhem"... continued Susan
Meg got watery eyes and said ,"I kinda miss them."
Susan nodded. "Me too..."
"Let's get them back!" they both shouted as they ran after the mutt.
"Stop running you mangled hound!" yelled Susan.
"Give us back our pets!" shouted Meg.
Leo meanwhile watched the chase from the porch, glad that the house was now two daft idiots lighter.