As the day of our departure loomed, I scrambled to pack everything my nine-and-a-half-pound terrier, Rico Suave, and I needed for fall and winter on the East End of Long Island. In Los Angeles, where we live part of the year, our winter wardrobe remained in the closet. Cold nights in L.A. (anything between 60 and 68 degrees) rarely require more than a sweatshirt. I needed a checklist so as not to forget anything, lest we freeze our literal tails off in the icy New York winter months ahead.
Winter coat, check. Snow boots, check. Pillow, check. Rico’s puffer jacket, raincoat, Dodgers hoodie (sure, I know we’re asking for trouble), and fleece, check. Dog toys, bed, and electric heating pad, check.
“Rico, what am I forgetting?” I asked.
Rico cocked his head and stared back at me quizzically.
“Oh, my goodness, Rico, you need a bath, a haircut, and some professional grooming. And you smell a bit off, like damp socks or Fritos. You absolutely need to be spiffed up. We can’t arrive in the Hamptons with you looking as if you’ve been up for days partying. I’m calling your groomer. I hope they can squeeze you in at the last minute.”
I grabbed my phone and made the call. No answer. I Googled groomers in my neighborhood and began dialing, desperate for a last-minute appointment. Striking out on every attempt, I finally found a salon willing to take Rico on the same day.
“Let’s go, Bud,” I said, grabbing the shaggy mess and tossing him in the car (with his seatbelt and harness, of course). I’d never been to this groomer, so I managed my expectations, but I was delighted when she took copious notes and intently listened to my specifications.
“He needs to look neat and tidy and smell fresh. But don’t trim his eyebrows. Rico’s been working on those eyebrows for nearly 15 years. He’s going for the Eugene Levy look. Oh, and his nickname is Mister Fox, so please keep his tail bushy, like a fox.”
I handed Rico, now quaking and panting nervously, to the gentle groomer and left, racing home to continue packing.
Two hours later, I waited excitedly in the salon for the big reveal.
“He was a good boy,” the groomer said as she placed his wriggling, freshly trimmed body in my arms. He looked dapper, complete with a bandanna, shipshape and shiny — no more scruffy mutt.
“Oh, Mister Rico Fox, now we are ready for the Hamptons!” I said gleefully.
I paid the groomer an exorbitant amount (roughly the same as I pay for my own grooming), as Rico dragged me out of the salon and leapt into the car.
On the way home, he began scratching. Within half an hour he was chafing, biting, and rubbing himself on any available surface. I chalked it up to a reaction to a new shampoo, the clippers, or dry skin. Surely this is temporary, I reasoned, and tried to ignore him, focusing instead on packing.
The next morning, checklist complete and suitcases stuffed, we headed to the airport. Before boarding, I administered some calming medicine our vet had prescribed. Confined to his carrier, it did nothing to soothe him, and he continued scratching for nearly the entire six-hour flight.
When we finally arrived at our tiny rental cottage late that evening, he’d bitten himself raw in several spots, drawn blood, created oozing hot spots and bald patches of skin.
“Little dude, we have to go to the vet right away. You’re getting worse by the minute.”
The next morning, I called the vet and begged to bring Rico in.
“Dr. Miller has an opening at . . .”
“I’ll take it,” I told the receptionist.
Dr. Miller is a genial guy, tall and welcoming. While Rico quaked, Dr. Miller sat on the floor with him, attempting to calm him down.
“So, I see he’s created quite a mess,” he said as he examined his fur meticulously, spreading it all around. “Aha, I see a flea,” he said.
“A flea?” I asked in shock. “He’s never had fleas in his entire life.”
“Well, here is the culprit,” Dr. Miller said, holding up the freshly squished flea as proof. “Has he been around other dogs lately?”
“Well, he went to the groomer in L.A. two days ago, just before we left for New York,” I answered.
“Hmm. Okay, I see. It appears he picked up a ‘hitchhiker flea,’ ” Dr. Miller stated straight-faced.
“A what?” I asked incredulously.
“A hitchhiker flea,” he reiterated.
“One flea?” I asked.
“Yup, a hitchhiker flea is an adult flea that hitches a ride on a host,” he explained. “This one flea bit him all over, and he is seemingly highly allergic, hence the havoc wreaked on Rico. But don’t worry, we’ll give him a shot today and some pills, and new flea medicine. He’ll be fine in a few days.”
And so, one week later, the hot spots have healed, and the biting and fretting have ceased.
One flea. One wayward hitchhiking flea. One bloodsucking, lawless flea thought it could stow away and hitch a free ride to New York.
Four hundred bucks later, we’re now flea-free, and ready for the Hamptons.
Stephanie Blank is a writer and storyteller living in Marina del Rey, Calif., and East Quogue. She can be followed on Instagram @StephanieBlankWriter, and her work can be read at linktr.ee/stephanieblankwriter.