Now I was stretched out on the floor, just hanging around with the dog on a lazy warm breezed afternoon when I had this conversation with a most erudite flea. I felt this buzzing coming from the fur at the base of the left canine ear, a low hum kind of thing, almost unnoticeable, which slowly let words through, and I stepped into the middle of a sentence or maybe it was a dream. This flea was quoting Schopenhauer and to my astonished look, eyebrows heavenward, he intoned in a rasping elderly flea voice, "Well, we do run through all those books you have around you, you know, those skyscrapers that teeter and totter. And I am the most learned of all the fleas, the guru to whom my multitudes flock, their six furry legs atwitter with anticipation. I am in the process of writing a sutra for future generations, those unaware nits of the moment clutching their follicles, unaware and undreaming. I am penning an opus on, I think, flea ecstasy." My mind wobbled and my jaw dropped for the flea continued, "You may close that cavern you call a mouth, that sorry excuse for a mandible that has not the proper apparatus to suck blood, you miserable eater of solids, you unclean mountain of a being. And to think that some of my brethren at times infest you. Ugly. But back to my opus, my flea brilliant song of leaf lines and tree sap and leaps ten times my body size in great ecstatic arcs. Ah it warms my blood just to think of it." I blinked, unsure of my ears or my sanity. The dog still snoozed. All around me looked normal. "The little problem I have," continued the flea, "is a matter of ink. Have not solved that nor have the generations before me. Ants' blood seems good at first but then it dries and fades. We've tried milking termites but it's the wrong consistency. Now, you give me an idea. Human blood, aye, that might do." He eyed me suspiciously with renewed interest and I leaped to see if there was anything left in that shaker of flea powder in the back of the cabinet. There was. I haven't heard from him since.