Itch

A small possum gave up the ghost in our garage this morning.

Why he (she?) decided to drop dead inside the garage is anyone's guess. We do have a lot of junk stored there but I'm hard pressed to imagine what it was that might have caught its attention. Hard to put yourself into the mind of a possum - especially a dead one.

I grabbed a few plastic grocery bags to scoop him up then paused as it occurred to me that he might not be dead, that he might be, well, playing possum. So, after a few scientific pokes I decide that he is indeed deceased and bag him up.

On the way to work this morning I stopped to tank up ($60!! But that's another post) and notice a small bug on my hand. Before I could shoo it off it HOPS away.

Shit.

That had to have been a flea.

The bug reappears as I'm doing 70 on the highway. I try to pluck it off my pants but it hops again - not to be seen again. I know that it's probably still in the truck or left me at some point during my travels this morning. Still, you can't know for sure, can you?

So, of course, I'm itching like crazy this morning - my mind working over time to sense any skin disturbance as though the possum's parting gift were a biblical swarm of fleas rather than the one I found.