Forty-eight Hours of Hell ... And Counting

Termites are a fact of life in Florida; everyone has them. Since my neighborhood has wood frame houses raised off the ground, we are vulnerable to the swarming drywood variety, the slowest eating and reproducing of the three main species, the best to have if a house gets infested. Any type of termite, however, requires treatment, so tented homes are a common sight. After workmen drape the house with impermeable plastic tarps, dangerous gases are pumped inside, and since the air conditioning is off, the temperature rises to 120+ degrees Fahrenheit. Conditions inside cannot sustain life of any kind. Even the house plants die if someone forgets to remove them. So the home's occupants and many of their belongings must go elsewhere until the house is disrobed and safely aired out.

I am writing this post at my dining room table. Usually I can look up to see its smooth spacious surface marred only [if too many days have elapsed since the last house cleaning] by dust and dog hair. Today, however, every bit of the table top—except for my tiny, clutter-free corner here at the end, just big enough for the laptop—is covered by bags stuffed full of things from Elizabeth's house: wine bottles, cereal boxes, spices, vitamins, drugs, dog food, cat food, etc.

I am spartan, a real minimalist. I prefer bare surfaces and empty corners. I am having to live in conditions where every roomy area of my house now has Athenian-quality heaps of stuff. The top of the bed is buried under Elizabeth's possessions. Her giant face care basket is on the tiny bathroom vanity. Items tumble out of the refrigerator and freezer every time one of us opens the door. I have to sit on the floor to watch TV as the dogs have already draped themselves over my few pieces of furniture. Pet hair has quadrupled as Banana, the beagle, isn't a single-coat breed.

Normally, I would be writing at the desktop in Command Central, but currently, this room houses all of the cats. We were worried that they would be frightened under Elizabeth's house while the workmen were securing the tarps and then inadvertently gassed. They can't roam free in the house because four dogs together—all of them hunting hounds—tend to develop the "pack mentality," and we don't want Felix or Joey torn to pieces.

I have already had to clean up blood, however. Bug and Pequod got into it yesterday, an argument over a bone, position on the couch, Yo-Yo's attention—I'm not sure what. Both dogs are covered in puncture wounds on their necks and front legs. Apparently, they have worked out their status issues as they are less growly today. I still keep a full water bottle within reach in case I have to hose either of them off again. And, of course, I also have a bottle of Febreze, as four dogs—three of them high-energy basenjis—tend to get so excited during play that "accidents" occur.

I can only pray that the workmen are back this afternoon to untent the house. I am resigned to another night of Pequod and the Banana shaking their dog collars on the hour every hour after 4 a.m. in an attempt to make everyone in the house eat breakfast on their schedule. But if my prayers are answered, we will be humping all of Elizabeth's things next door tomorrow. Her father said that at least this summer break while cohabitating we have electricity, a luxury we went without during Charley last year. I suppose he's right, but boy, am I looking forward to the return of my clean dining room table.

Elizabeth isn't having any fun either. She swears that she will write a post titled "The Ninth Circle of Hell." As she is always claiming that she will write posts but then doesn't follow through, I am not linking to her blog until I actually see the goods, but if she does manage to crank something out, I will, in fairness, provide a link so that she can tell her side of the story.