A Boy and his Fleas

A Boy and his Fleas

Martin Luther had fleas. He must have gotten them while we were at the park. Before long, they were everywhere. They were on me. I, too, had fleas because of Martin Luther.
Because Martin Luther had fleas, I had to give him a bath. Some dogs love baths; Martin Luther did not enjoy any ablutions. I had fleas too, so I figured I’d join him, even though the bottle said the shampoo was not for human use. The fleas wouldn’t know the difference.
I have a large bathtub, a ceramic stand-alone big enough to fit the both of us. I ran the water, while Martin Luther made himself scarce. When it was nearly ready, I whistled “walk,” but he knew better.
Annoyed by his cleverness, I sought him out through the living room. It was carpeted in maroon shag, and as I clopped through the room I could feel the fleas leaping onto my bare legs. 
I found him in his bed by the front door. “Martin Luther,” I barked. “Hier!”
He was a retired police dog, given to me by my aunt who works as a trainer. Aunt Denise gave me a list of German phrases along with the animal. I stood over him, naked, and demanded his obedience. 
The dog seemed unperturbed by his infestation. For a dog it was merely a matter of an itch, but for a man it’s a matter of pride. It was humiliating. The dog’s defiance irritated me, but he remained obstinate. 
I took him by his collar and started to pull. He was nine years old, a ripe old age for a shepherd, but he was as strong as he ever was. He looked at me with kind and gentle brown eyes below which was a jaw that could maul me.
As a police dog, he was given a special commendation after a bullet wound took him out of action. The injury left him with a limp in his front leg, but other than that he was fine. I always got the feeling he resented his premature retirement. He was used to a life of adventure and action.
I asked my aunt if I could use him on the streets as a vigilante protecting ladies in distress from purse snatchers and the like. She said it was illegal to use the dog as a weapon and looked disappointed that I would ask her that. It wasn’t for me; it was for him! She recommended I take him to the park regularly and on a drive now and then. She assured me he’d be fine. It still irked me, though, how disappointed he must have been.
The dog had been meticulously trained in combat both offensive and defensive. He sat and held his front paws before him which seemed to give him the weight of marble. “Martin Luther, we have to take a bath! These fleas are killing me. Hier. Hier. Hier.”
I released him, for I was getting nowhere. “Fine! Have fleas. Have fleas if you like, but I’m taking a bath.”
The tub had been overflowing for some time. The water was about an inch deep and was soaking into the edges of the carpet. I rushed to turn off the tap and heard a loud pounding at the door. Martin Luther stood at attention and watched the door with cool anticipation. The pounding continued, loud and angry. “Just a minute,” I shouted, reaching for a towel.
Martin Luther watched the door with unabating seriousness. With careful steps I left the bathroom and crossed the living room floor. The dog made way for me, remaining at attention.
On the other side of the door, the building manager, Harry, held a plastic bucket. He looked angry. Recognizing the familiar face, Martin Luther returned to his bed and his paw. 
“What the hell you got going on up here? It’s raining in 2b.”
“Yeah, Harry, sorry. I was trying to give Martin Luther a bath, and I left it running.”
“Bath?”
“He’s got fleas.”
“Then why are you in a towel?” Harry looked me over. His anger slipped into confusion. 
“I got them too,” I answered looking down and to the left and scratching.
He laughed. “You got fleas?” He turned to Martin Luther. “You believe this shit? Damn, boy. You gonna give yourself a flea bath with the dog? How do you feel about that Marty?” He had his laugh and then recalled his rage. “Clean it up. Mrs Gaines is having a conniption. We’re gonna have to replace the drywall. We’re charging you, ya know.”
“Yeah, I get it, Harry. I’m sorry.”
“I bet.” He stuck his head inside. “You got fleas in the carpet?” I looked away. “Aw shit, man. What is it with you?”
“I’ll flea-bomb it tomorrow.”
“Bullshit you will. I’ll take care of it. Clean up that water and have your little bath. Unbelievable.” Harry looked disgusted. 
The next morning I received a notice from Harry taped to my door. He would be fumigating the next day, and Martin Luther and I would have to vacate the apartment for forty-eight hours. I was unsuccessful in further attempts to coax my stubborn shepherd into the water, but by that evening I couldn’t tolerate the itching any longer.
In the bath, I rubbed the dog’s malodorous shampoo all over my body. With great satisfaction I watched as the fleas fled from their host into the whirlpool at the drain. 
The bugs were gone, but the chemicals left me with a horrid smell and a scathing rash on my face and chest.
I shot Martin Luther a spiteful sidelong glance. He still lay unbothered, gnawing on his paw. When he saw me his ears perked up and he tilted his head as if saying, “I tried to tell you.”
The rash was worse than the fleas. It felt like scalding water poison ivy. I wanted to crawl into bed and lay there until the pain subsided and the shame grew dull.
Harry opened the door at 7:30 the next morning toting an armload of plastic sheeting and a box of pesticides.
“If I catch fleas, I’m gonna wring your neck,” he vowed in his grouchy pugilist manner.
At least it was summer.
I imagine we looked like an awkward pair, Martin Luther with his measured marshal march,  even with  his limp, and me with my slouching hangdog air. The chemical smell seemed to have gotten worse, and I noticed people moving away from us on the sidewalk.  
We ended up at the dog park, the same park where we caught our fleas, and Martin Luther socialized while I tucked myself into a corner under the trees. There were twenty or so city dogs congregating on the muddy paw-beaten grass. They were of all sorts, large and small, old and young, fit and fat, but they all got along. It was nice to watch.
In that environment, Martin Luther was a dog like the rest, interested in doggy things, yet unlike the others, his comportment was clearly authoritative. The dogs respected him and sought his counsel in disputes over sticks and clods of feces. He was the flea riddled Solomon of the dog park. 
I stayed in the shade as the sun was irritating my rash. 
Even in the shade, the air was becoming hot and damp. I wanted to move on, but Martin Luther had just started palling around with a barky cocker spaniel, and I didn’t want to interrupt. Friends are important, I hear. Aunt Denise told me that Martin Luther would keep me company since I was such a homebody. The dog was supposed to be my friend.
I stood up and scanned the park. I was about to call out for him, when I noticed him on his back receiving vigorous belly-rubs from two city cops. Not knowing what to do I stopped and watched them. Martin Luther was as excited as a pup, doing barrel rolls and yapping in an alto pitch I had never heard before. Between the play, they drilled him on his orders. “Plotz!” The dog sat. “Aus!” The dog followed them in a circle. “Fuss!” The dog went to heel as cleanly as an infantry soldier.
After a time, one of the cops started looking around for his owner. He spotted me standing there and shouted, “Hey, is this your dog?”
There was nothing else I could do. I wanted to run away, but that would have looked bad. Instead of fleeing I nodded and approached. As I came nearer, his big smile morphed into concern. “Are you alright there, pal?”
The other cop moved his right hand to his belt and stepped forward. “Do you require medical attention?”
My face must have gotten worse. My cheeks pulsated in the sun and burned with any facial movement. “No, it’s just a rash. It’s not contagious.” They both looked skeptical, but I assured them again that it was a reaction to my shampoo. Of course it wasn’t my shampoo, but I didn’t feel as though further details were necessary.
“I’d get that looked at,” the first one said and turned back to the dog who stood rigid at his side, looking at me as if I were a suspect. “You adopted Martin Luther?”
“Yeah. My aunt is a trainer.”
“Denise?” He turned to his partner. “You know Denise.”
“Hell yes I do.”
“She’s my aunt.”
“Huh.” He looked at Martin Luther with nostalgic admiration. “I’m sorry, I’m Sargent Dunlop.” He extended his hand and I took it and he squeezed. “Luther was my partner from the K-9 unit. One hell of a cop.”
I tried to smile but it hurt too much.
Officer Dunlop resumed stroking the dog. “After his injury they took him out of active duty, I…” He looked at me and smiled. “I’m glad he went to a good home. Your aunt is a top-notch trainer.” 
I didn’t know what to say.
“This is the one then, Sarge?” The other cop had a young, red face.
“This is him.” He looked at me again, and I wished he wouldn’t.
After I didn’t say anything, Dunlop continued, speaking to someone in between me and the ruddy young cop. “He saved my life. We were partners on the day he was shot. We got the call for a burglary in progress. It was late. When we got to the house I could see him inside through the window. I kicked open the door. It spooked the perp, and he fired a shot in my general direction. Most men I know would take cover, but Luther rushed him and got him on the forearm. Perp was not two feet from me when he took another shot which went into his leg there.”
He lifted the dog’s front right leg and displayed the scar.
“He took a bullet for me.” Oh god, was he going to cry? “I wanted to take him after his retirement.”
“Why didn’t you, Sarge?”
“Bureaucracy. My kids were too young or some bullshit. Like Luther would ever do anything.” He looked at me with glassy eyes. “But, I trusted Denise to find a home for him.”
I shuffled and looked down. Officer Dunlop continued caressing Martin Luther when he stopped and picked a flea out of his fur. “What’s this?” he asked his partner.
“Looks like a flea, Sarge.”
“A flea?” He looked at me. “You let him get fleas?”
“He wouldn’t get in the bath,” was all I could think of saying. 
All kindness dissipated from his face. “You okay, Sarge?”
“Yeah.” Staring at me. “Just a dog, right?”
He stood up and looked down at Martin Luther. The ruddy cop looked ready to pounce at his command. “Come on,” he said and the pair walked off.
Martin Luther watched them go and started to follow. “Blieb,” Dunlop spoke softly and the dog let out a whimper and stayed.
I clipped the leash onto his collar and gave it a tug. He resisted for a second, but soon gave in. This was his life now. He had to accept it, fleas and all.