Flea-ridden

Your dog is flea-ridden.

Two or three times a week a sort of Italian eil-wagen, a funereal and tumble-down, flea-ridden coach, with windows boarded up so high that, when seated, you cannot see out of them, and closed hermetically, after Italian fashion, shambles along at jog-trot pace between the two towns, and takes a livelong day, from early morning to late at night, to perform the journey.

He threw Dormer the paper, stooped to pat the flea-ridden puppy of the hotel, and went in.

“Tell them, then, that if they don't go...I’ll knock all their teeth out...I’ll tear their ears off...I’ll hang the lot of them...and that I'll burn down their entire flea-ridden village. Understand?”