Anti-biosis

by Matt Robertshaw

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Once, immediately behind the left shoulder blade of an Irish setter called Pat, there lived a small but active settlement of fleas. After several generations—or one-and-a-half dog years—of residence, the parasites had eked out a comfortable enough life for themselves on Pat the dog. They had a lush red forest above them to provide shade from the sun, and the warm flesh of their host below them to keep them warm at night. Not to mention they had three square meals of dog blood a day. Yes sir, existence in the little colony was practically flawless.

     The only thing imperfect about their lives was their host’s inclination, every so often, to scratch herself behind the shoulder. Each time she did one or two dozen upstanding members of the flea community would never be heard from again.

A town meeting was called to discuss the issue. One outspoken senior flea called Crawford, who had recently lost his brother in a particularly vigorous scratching, demanded something be done to remedy the situation. They couldn’t be expected to live with that kind of fear looming over their antennae. The scientists among them were moved by Crawford’s compelling oration. They vowed that they would put aside their petty differences, that they would not rest until they had come up with a solution. Later that afternoon they had finished. They concocted a chemical that would dissolve the canine’s nails in a matter of seconds. The four bravest and strongest members of the small society were selected for the task. The formula was divided between them. They said their good-byes and, one-by-one, headed off on their long journeys to each of Pat’s dreaded paws.

Several days passed before the mighty quartet returned to a hero’s welcome. They had each, they explained, been successful in their mission. The solution worked exactly as the scientists had promised; Pat the dog would no longer be scratching them to oblivion. They had become masters of their environment.

At last the tiny community could live in harmony.

The week and a half that followed came to be known as the Golden Age for the flea colony. The reddish forest above them and the warm ground below meant a life of constant comfort. Not to mention they had all the dog blood they could eat. Their population grew daily and exponentially until the village became a proper city. Of course their host seemed to move about a lot more than it had previously—as the scientists had hypothesized—due to the increased irritation. But the fleas simply basked in the ever-changing scenery.

Just when it seemed like they would never again have a care in the world their host made a particularly severe and sudden movement and the entire city was submerged in an ocean of mud. A full third of their population was lost in that disaster. The poets wrote laments for the lost. The philosophers tried vainly to explain the catastrophe. The scientists vowed that it would never happen again.

Hours later they had developed a solution. It was a synthetic membrane with which the entire city could be covered, protecting it from future devastation. Architects, subcontractors, and urban developers all devoted immeasurable time and energy to the Great Cause. It wasn’t long before the city was safe once more. Again they had proved their mastery of the world around them. Again they had won.

Finally their vibrant, growing city could live in harmony.

It wasn’t long before their population had doubled, even trebled. The boundaries of the anti-mudstorm membrane—which worked wonderfully—kept having to be moved outward to account for all the new residents. It soon became apparent that their colony had reached its capacity and plans for a second settlement were drawn up. There was some handsome real estate in the vicinity of the canine’s haunches.

No one could be sure, however, that the new colony would succeed. One elderly flea told a half-fabricated story about a group sent out by his ancestors to settle on a nearby cat. They were never heard from again. The rigours of long distance travel alone were enough to make any flea weary, especially one who had never known a care. To calm their fears, the now famous scientists developed a method of blood harvesting so there would be a steady supply to get the pioneers through both their journey and the first few weeks in the new settlement.

Surely enough it worked. The new colony was established that afternoon without out any difficulty. They had their protective membrane in place and all that was left to do was to fill the town with fleas. It all came together so seamlessly that when they were settled they still had an abundance of dog blood in reserve. One exceptionally forward-thinking young parasite made a sterling case for the perpetuation of blood harvesting. With a constant, easily accessible supply of stored blood in the city the fleas would no longer have to waste time individually scoping out a spot to burrow into the ground for food everyday. Sure it was the way it had always been done, but they had already bettered their lives in so many ways, so why stop now? If sustenance was available to everyone at the flick of a switch, he eloquently explained, they could do so much more with their lives. Their leisure time could be dedicated to higher pursuits like organized sports and stamp collecting. There would be no limit to what they could achieve. 

And he was right.

The city, now protected from the elements and with food readily available at any moment, grew at an unprecedented speed. The burgeoning metropolis soon rivaled the Old City in size. Artists spent their days creating masterpieces that reflected the idyllic existence in which the fleas now found themselves. Doctors found a cure to nearly every disease known to fleakind. Philosophers invented new kinds of logic to disprove the old kinds. Some people just read books and slept all day. No one could ask for anything more. All of their wants and needs were met in every way.

Finally, the fleas could live the lives they never knew they wanted. They had become the masters of everything that was. At last they had truly won.

But it didn’t last long. The next morning the blood harvester slowed, spluttered to a stop. Rumours cropped up as to why it had, but the fleas kept on living in the way to which they had grown accustomed. Even when it became clear that the food reserves had been all but dried up the fleas continued consuming and consoling. It wasn’t until one particularly sentimental flea took the last sip of blood in either of the cities that they finally faced the truth.

The once-lush forest above them had grown wiry and pale. The once-warm ground below them had grown cold.

Pat the dog had died.

The End