Call to arms!

Yes, it is time to take the battle to the enemy. No longer will we sit back idly, watching willful bloodshed, suffering and itchiness.
It is time to take our offensive to fur-roots level.
You've guessed it - it's deflea-ing time!
In my household this is a monthly battle that personifies evil vs a lesser evil. In essence, once every four weeks I knowingly poison my cats. Now before you speed-dial the animal rescue institute of your choice, let me explain. Modern technology still hasn't managed to rid the world of fleas, but it has provided a solution of some sorts. No, not a solution, rather a plaster on the wound. Now every pet-owner can have their own little chemical battle with those pesky pests. The fleas, not the pets.
Between my dog and 3 cats, this takes on the scope of a minor production, including stunned looks, horrified expressions, cringing and wailing. And that's just me battling with the human-proof packaging.
Then comes the really fun part (not) of surprising the cats with flea-drops at the ready. In theory this might sound simple; I mean, how difficult could it be for the uber-primate equipped with opposable thumbs to apply a few drops of liquid to the back of your average moggie's neck.
Ha! Easier said than done.
The dog is easy: show up, pat dog, open dispenser, part fur and apply drops. Repeat pat. Walk away.
The cats are a bit more difficult, and I have to necessitate to underhanded methods, wrestling and bribery to get everyone through the exercise.
In winter it's a tad easier. Cats are the ultimate users, but at least they are honest about it. As long as you open tins, provide a warm lap and respond positively to an occasional request for scratching, peace and prosperity will reign.
So... in winter you wait until said victim, I mean beloved feline, hops onto your lap for some under-fur heating. Gently stroke cat (if requested) until a mutual state of relaxation is reached. Now comes the tricky bit; without disrupting the stroking rhythm, start parting the fur on the neck with one hand while quietly opening the little container of doom and applying contents to cat.
Cat may now either:
a. continue resting in blissful ignorance
b. take off with vertical acceleration that makes warp speed look slow
c. give you a dirty, knowing look that hints at future revenge
But, an owner's gotta do what an owner's gotta do. And I have this blissful image of the little bloodsuckers, clad in snazzy evening dress with billowing cloaks, bending over to sink their fangs into cat-flesh only to stagger away, choking, before going up in smoke. Perhaps it is only wishful thinking to imagine they would react like a vampire who has just had a fang-full of blood liberally laced with holy-water, garlic and a hint of silver-essence. But hey, if that's what gets me through the monthly confrontation, then that's what I'll do.