I love cats, but I am highly allergic to them. My allergist insisted on removing “cat” from my shot serum, because my arm would sport a softball-sized welt after my shots. “Do you have a cat?” he asked me in dismay, after weeks of this alarming result, “Or any pressing need to address this particular allergy?” Uh, not really, I guess. “Well then,” he sighed, “I would recommend we stop this particular treatment.” Hey, Dr. Dude, I’m not the one that started it. You get the big bucks, so why didn’t you ask me if I had cats? Before my arm exploded into a hot, red, ball of itching hell! Especially after the off-the-charts reaction on the allergy test! After the “cat” was removed from my serum, my arm only blew a golf ball-sized welt. He couldn’t remove the “dust mite” from my serum. Those little monsters are everywhere! Years later, I’m barely reacting to my shots, though I always know which arm gets the “dust mite.” It’s actually their poop that’s the allergen, to make it even grosser. I think they’re in the spider family. Like I need one more reason to hate them.
I remember my very first allergic reaction to a cat. Ninth grade. I was at the house of a fellow student, who lived a couple of blocks away. It was my first year wearing contacts, the hard ones, which is all that was available in medieval times. We were working on a school project, I think. I don’t remember if I played with her cat, or even touched it. But being unable to resist most furry creatures, I would bet that I did. My eye itched like crazy, and I rubbed it as I walked home. By the time I arrived at my house, my eye membrane had swollen so far over my eyeball, I had to use a little suction tool to remove my contact lens. Gruesome. Of course, I didn’t make the connection at the time, and since it never happened again, it remained a mystery. Only in hindsight have I made the allergy connection.
I can be around cats and suffer only a little sneezing. I can pet them, if I remember not to touch my eyes before washing my hands. I can even be in a house where cats live, if there is not a substantial build-up of dander. I once walked into a friend of a friend’s house, and within two minutes, was reduced to a sneezing, coughing, congested mess. I was accused of bringing some horrible cold germ into the house and apologized, unable to explain this very sudden onslaught of symptoms. We were there to see her new baby, so I’m surprised she didn’t call the CDC to quarantine me. Later, a cat sauntered into the room, and I had my explanation. I also had asthma so bad, even my inhaler couldn’t help me. I was forced to leave. I think my hostess was relieved to see me go. I’m sure she disinfected everything I touched. Her time may have been better spent vacuuming. But that’s just my opinion.
Years later, I entered the house of a new neighbor. Her home was lovely, and we curled up in her beautifully appointed living room for a cup of tea and conversation. I was there over an hour before her cat entered the room. I stared at it in shock, voicing my incredulity that she had a cat. I may have even uttered something inane, like “That can’t possibly be a cat!” I told my neighbor of that fateful day that I had nearly died from feline exposure. Subsequent encounters have enlightened me. Unlike my previous assumption, that I would know within minutes whether a cat lived in a house that I entered, I realized that instead, I would be able to discern only the vacuuming habits of the cat owner. Fortunately for me, I hang around with people who vacuum. I have abundant relatives, neighbors and friends who abide with cats, and I can often be in their homes for hours without problems. I have enough other allergies that I’m on medication, and I carry my trusty inhaler with me always, but I don’t often have to use it. And what’s a little nose blowing among good friends and family?
