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Two weeks of lovely new pet-parenthood

It’s been two weeks of lovely new pet-parenthood, filled with exalted escapades and largely carefree, only a slight creeping sense of underestimated responsibility, coming to an abrupt apogee when we had to rush him to the clinic last night because of this mysterious sudden allergic reaction, causing not only idiopathic itching and uncontrolled scratching all over, but the same swollen eyelids I recognized from my worst but actually lived through nightmares.

Out of all things inheritable or otherwise transferable, something less tenacious would have been bonny, but the poor thing is clearly saddled with my frail constitution and history seems to always want to repeat itself woefully, evidenced anew by the vanished symptoms when we arrived at the clinic.

I first encountered discrepancies between my lifestyle and what my body could handle when I was about eighteen and this doctor, who happened to be the father of a friend which gave him a more credible say, strongly advised me to get rid of the dog and cats I recently fostered, their omnipresence reputedly cause of my numerous physical complaints. In light of the platitude “you do the crime, you do the time” I chose a terrifying operation on my nose instead and forcibly forgot this insurmountable idea.

Of all the autoimmune diseases I since managed to build up an impressive collection of, the allergic eczema and angio-edema have been a fabulous source of humor and hilarity, one joker of a doctor even implying the day of its final retreat would come as unexpected as its first revelation, but it might also be the day of my passing. I totally understood his impulse to spruce up this awful message and his frustration of not being able to help. For me, looking for nebulous culprits ended forever when another doctor implied I should stop taking the medication she prescribed to keep things under control to outrun any chance I’d be allergic to the fillers they also contain.

You don’t fight uncertainty with doubt but with conviction, so I’ve persuaded myself to believe washing his new blanket will be the end of this current suffering. Until it isn’t, naturally, considering it might not be genetic, but related we are.


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