I’ve always been allergic to cats and dogs. It defined my childhood. I’d spend sleepless nights on sleepovers at homes with cats, lying first on my right side to clear my left nostril, then on my left to clear my right.
Once I was rushed to the hospital for an adrenaline shot to my heart. I learned this when Pulp Fiction came out. Mom said that depiction was far more dramatic than how it had actually been. Though she was, of course, terrified she would lose me.
Horses, too, drove my allergies nuts. My friend, Katie, was and is a horse fanatic. The one time I went with her to a riding lesson in middle school, I had to wander out into the fields to escape the effects of the animals on my poor nose.
Carriage rides were a nightmare, needless to say. There’s little chance for romance with snot running down your face. Kissing is dangerous with a stuffy nose.
Then there’s my skin, which reacts to absolutely everything. A dog licking my hand could cause a rash that would last for a couple of weeks.
The only time I wasn’t allergic to cats and dogs was while I was pregnant. I don’t remember exactly how I realized it — I don’t remember much from those foggy-brained months — but it was thrilling and freeing. I’d hoped that maybe the allergies were gone for good, but then they crept back. Not as bad as when I was a kid, but still a hassle.
Until now. I’ve been staying in all these homes with cats and dogs and they don’t bother me at all. It’s menopause related, I assume. Another hormonal shift.
There’s a cat here in Maine who likes to crawl into bed with me and snuggle. It’s totally fine, except for the claws and the sharp little teeth. I don’t really like how stabby those parts of cats can be. But even then, this cat here nibbled on my arm a bit the other night. It was annoying, and I got stern with him, but there was no rash.
I’m not pushing it. I don’t borrow my face in his fur. I don’t let him sleep over. I’m not ready for that kind of commitment.
I’m easing into this new freedom.