Flea Market

 
Today I dared to boldly scuttle where no rat has scuttled before – the flea market.
 
As if I hadn’t learned my lesson from the nasty bout of sand fleas I contracted in Margarataville last August, I decided to tag along with my human family today as they headed to a local flea market. They enjoyed the sights and sounds, perusing over many antiques, old coins, and, of course, the leather goods (Big Burly Pop really likes those), but I was quick to sneak around to the concession stands and see if I could indulge myself in a little nacho cheese.
 
En route to the food fare, however, I passed a booth advertising “The Fantabulous Flea Circus,” and my beady-red rat eyes just couldn’t resist a look-see. Yeah, that wasn’t the most rat-tastic idea I’ve ever had. The first performing acts – juggling jumpers, tightrope crawlers, and trapfleas artists – were, I admit, pretty pawsome. And I was quite astounded by the cat tamer’s performance. In fact, I was rather enjoying myself until Fernanda the Flying Flea launched herself out of a flea-sized cannon and landed right onto my fur. Ooh, the itching … how I squirmed and jumped and scratched to get that little bugger off me! The humans who had gathered about assumed I was just a part of the circus’s acroratics routine, and wailed with laughter. And to make matters worse, Fernanda happened to be pregnant, so in a few days when all of her eggs hatch I will certainly not be a happy rat. (Luckily I found some Flea-Be-Gone in an old first aid kit that was there, so I’m going to head those biting blighters off at the pass.)
 
So my visit to the flea market turned out to be a humbug event indeed, and while I ponder the effects of what a mess I’ve gotten myself into and hope that those creepy critters aren’t harboring the plague, I will send you a warning: if you have plans to go to the flea market, do adore the antiques, ogle at the old coins, and lavish the leather, but for your own benefit, flee from the flea circus as fast as your feet will fly!
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob