Murder by cat

STIPIMM: “Thank You,” by Dido

I don’t hate cats, and I never have. I’m a bit disgusted with the whole urinating-and-defecating-into-a-box-that’s-usually-not-too-far-from-the-kitchen thing, but all in all, I’ve always thought cats were on the whole very interesting, comforting creatures. At least when they’re declawed.

But as most of you probably know, I have a problem with cats. A big problem. A problem that’s only gotten worse with time. I’m allergic to the Felis domesticus, more specifically the dander that they shed all over people’s houses. It’s an allergy I seem to have inherited from my father, whose disdain of cats was something I never quite could understand as a kid. I understand now. My dad, however, was able to be careful in his avoidance of homes that housed a feline; I don’t remember too many people my family knew (with a couple of exceptions) that had cats.

I don’t have that luxury. Of all the people I know, and all the places I often visit, there are only two places that do not currently house a cat: my brother and sister-in-law’s apartment in Amherst, Mass., and my grandparent’s house in San Angelo, Texas. That’s it. All my friends, all the rest of my family and Bridget’s family have cats.

Keep in mind that this isn’t some nuisance allergy that just causes a bit of sneezing or itchy eyes for a while. The first time I had a major allergy attack from a cat was in San Antonio, Texas, several years ago; it became so difficult to breathe that I was actually being driven to the hospital when it started to clear up. Why did it start to clear up? Because I had left the offending house, of course. But even though the life-threatening part of the attack had passed, my breathing was labored for several hours, and the fearsome wheezing in my lungs lasted a couple of days.

I have a steroid inhaler now that is a vital part of my travel toiletries, so I should never have any near-hospital visits over cats anytime soon. But still, after spending a day or two in someone’s house, I will be afflicted with wheezing, congestion and all manner of respiratory discomfort for days. Indeed, as I sit here, I’m still coughing up gook that built up over Thanksgiving weekend, which was spent shuttling between two houses that contained all manner of cats. It’s tough to really enjoy oneself when one is constantly aware of the reactions one is having to the environment. I can’t even relax in my childhood home in Mustang, Oklahoma, for god’s sake, because there are two cats living there now. Indeed, it doesn’t feel like home anymore.

Of course, there are other things that make it feel less like home – the absence of Dickens, our dog, and especially my father. Besides my allergies, there’s another thing I seem to have inherited from him: two days ago, while watching “Curb Your Enthusiasm” and enduring the results of my latest allergic attack, I coughed every time I laughed hard (which, with that show, is often). My dad used to do that too. The respiratory parallels come to mind every time I hear my lungs wheeze in a way that sounds like paper crackling or every time I cough up something that tastes like ash. And yes, it does scare me. Quite a bit.