"Here comes the FRONTLINE."

I dread having to apply the Frontline flea and tick “pesticide” to Olive every month for two reasons. 1) I don’t like the idea of using “body pesticides” on my pooch and 2) Did you ever try parting a Weim’s miniscule fur to expose its skin? HA! It’s like trying to part grains of sand to find an amoeba. You’d think it would be easier since you don’t have to pull back drapery-length fur to reveal a fur-line. Nicht so! Olive’s fur must be about a quarter of an inch long at best. I imagine it’s sort of similar to the dilemma radiologists face when giving a mamogram to a sparrow-breasted woman. The only difference is that the woman isn’t squirming like she’s Arnold Schawrzenegger at an upcoming Women’s Conference. “OLIVE. HOLD STILL YOU LITTLE NUT. TRUST ME, YOU DON’T WANT THIS IN YOUR EYE.” I perform the procedure in the 6’x5’ bathroom where I have Olive cornered between the toilet bowl and the tub. My God, this stuff smells like gasoline and it’s probably just as flammable. Thank God I don’t smoke or my dog might go up in flames. This process is compounded by the fact that bats have better eyesight than I do. Inevitably much of it seems to stay on the top of her fur which I then try to work deeper down using the applicator. Predictably, when I’m done, my hands smell like the hands of a 16-year old gas pump jockey. I open the bathroom door and Olive races out as though she just heard the start bell go off at the Meadowlands Racetrack. If I’m lucky, she doesn’t run into the bedroom, dive on the bed, and start rolling around on the comforter like she is trying to put out a fire. If. Every time I hear myself say that word, it reminds me of my late father who used to say, “If is the biggest word in the dictionary.”