Is that a flea, or am I just pleased to see you?

There's an itch at the end of my tail. And another beneath my leg. It is a familiar itch.
Normally they do something about it instantly. They put some kind of wet stuff on my tail and neck and then the itch goes away.
This time, they said they don't have any and have to go and buy some.
Well, do so please, now, quick, because I can't go down that road to misery again.
I don't want the humiliation of a flea wash. I don't want the constant stress of having to bite the little buggers to death.
Look at me, I'm beautiful. I shouldn't have to put up with this shit.

The dread of not knowing if tonight will be the night when all of those little white eggs will suddenly hatch, hatch, pop in my fur and feast on my skin to celebrate their freedom. It is not if, it is when. This is a race against time. Just because it is Sunday night and all the shops are closed doesn't mean you can't find the wet stuff we need somewhere. You aren't trying hard enough.
Which one of you mongrels did it? Which one? Which one of you conglomerated the nest of fleas in your fur and deigned to come close enough to me to facilitate the infestation? This is why I stay away from my own kind. Seriously. They're crazy, dangerous and have fleas. I should not have fleas. I am Henry pups, the invincible. I'm a celebrity, get me out of here.