They begin in the unnoticed places: under a tail, along a belly, inside a fold that no one has checked in days. In the heavy warmth of summer, one fly’s brief visit is enough to seed a living invasion. Eggs hatch into larvae that sink into the skin, feeding, expanding, transforming a quiet animal into a vessel of constant, gnawing pain. The smell changes from earthy to sickly-sweet, the kind that clings to your throat. Hair falls away, and the skin splits into open, pulsing wounds that do not close on their own.

But this isn’t an inevitable horror. It is a test of whether someone is watching, caring, touching often enough to notice when something feels wrong. Clean, dry spaces and daily checks turn potential infestations into simple, treatable problems. When caught early, careful hands and veterinary care can pull the invaders out, cleanse the rot, and return what infestation erodes first: the animal’s quiet trust that its body is still a safe place to live.