Fleabags.

There is no getting around this: my cats have fleas.

Which means that my house has fleas, which means that I am a mental case in a cyclonic whirlwind of laundry and vacuuming and chemical-free spray and chemical-laden spray, and drops and collars and desperate combing of fur and paranoid scratching of both real and phantom bites.

Thanks a lot, Oliver and Mr. Peterson.  We love you furry rascals, but we could do without the VERMIN you've brought into our cozy, tidy home.  Soon we'll be setting off an arsenal of foggers before clearing out for a full day of family fun, hoping that the deadly mist seeps into every inch of our home and eliminates each hopping, elusive, minuscule, maddening parasite.  Seriously.  Fleas?