My Dog is Allergic to Me, So I’m Rehoming Myself
It’s the humane thing to do.
I’m sure you’ve heard of a scenario in which a person becomes allergic to their beloved pet, so said pet gets rehomed. Well, Dear Reader, I find myself in the exact opposite situation.
Two months ago, my puggle mix Dorian started sneezing whenever I entered the room. Not long after, I noticed hives developing on his haunches — exactly where I hold him during our “Mommy and Me” swim classes.
I took him to the vet and inquired about trying a new food regimen. Perhaps Dorian’s diet of Atlantic salmon and beets was the cause. The vet shook her head. “I see this a lot.” She turned to Dorian. “You’re allergic to people.”
“But I’m people,” I said incredulously. “Precisely,” snipped the vet. “Here’s a list of things you can do to improve the situation. Only try one at a time, so you can tell what works and what doesn’t.”
The next morning, after taking separate baths (a first!), I looked at the list while Dorian munched his breakfast beets: Exfoliate thoroughly to eradicate dander. I grabbed the loofah languishing in my shower and scrubbed until I bled. I sauntered back to Dorian, dying to hold him in my arms after hours of being unable to. He took one sniff of my scabbing body and vomited onto the remainder of his organic beet pile.
I ran back to my bathroom, list in hand. Item two: Remove all hair. Using the pair of grooming shears that Dorian’s barber had forgotten, I chopped off my eighteen-inch mane. I plucked my eyelashes out and shaved my body until I was indistinguishable from one of the earth worms Dorian slurps from the ground at the park.
By the time I finished, it was evening. Friday was Movie Night, so we settled into the loveseat to watch Grey Gardens. For a moment, it seemed as though The Great Shave had been effective; Dorian didn’t sneeze, nor vomit. But partway through the film (when Little Edie does her dance routine), Dorian began to cough terribly. His beautiful beady eyes watered in distress. I scrambled out of the room and called the vet.
“Is he coughing when he’s alone?” she asked. I could hear a Lean Cuisine spinning in the microwave on her end of the call. I poked my head back into the living room, where Dorian sat peacefully. “He’s completely fine, but maybe it’s just a coincidence,” I offered. “It’s you. Try the next item on the list. And please refer to the list next time instead of calling me on a weekend-” I hung up on her and her sad, rotating dinner.
I grabbed the list once again. Item Three: Quarantine yourself to a single room. Like a pack mule, I loaded everything I could possibly need onto my back and dropped it in the guest bedroom. I erected a doggie gate in the doorway, so I would remember not to enter Dorian’s living space.
I had to use the bathroom immediately upon waking the next morning. Luckily, I had had the foresight to bring some of Dorian’s potty pads into my new abode. Next, it was time for breakfast. I had only packed shelf stable foods, so I jawed some beef jerky and canned garbanzos.
A few days went by. I used an especially hard strip of jerky to bore a peephole into the door so I could watch Dorian and track his allergy flares. I didn’t have pen or paper, so I tore the bed linens into strips to denote each reaction. I quickly realized that me being in a separate room wasn’t enough; sure, it helped at first. But over time, my human stench seeped into the rest of the apartment like a mutinous poison, and he developed a constant wheeze. So long as we remained together, my darling boy would suffer. One of us had to move out.
I wrapped myself in the guest bedroom rug and rolled toward the apartment door, so as not to contaminate the floor during my exodus (we had also watched Cleopatra the Movie Night prior). I was overtaken by darkness, but I could feel Dorian’s glassy eyes on the woolly canister that contained me, his mommy. I sobbed, knowing this would be our last interaction. I sensed his longing to give me a final face lick, to place his velveteen paw on my hand one more time. His touching reverie was interrupted by the allergies kicking in. He sneezed rapid fire like a mammalian bb gun, and I resumed my roll over the threshold.
Once out of the apartment, I stood upright. I went to the lobby and called that ass of a vet. “Hi, yes. I need to be rehomed. Sure, I’ll hold.”
