Hello, Dolly!

 “When a man loves cats, I am his friend and comrade, without further introduction.” – Mark Twain

In addition to hailing from the same hometown, and possessing a similar proclivity for writing, Mark Twain and I also have in common an affection for creatures of the feline variety. However, my predilection for cats is unfortunately countered by a severe allergy to the small beasts.

My earliest memory of having an allergic reaction to cats occurred when my parents decided to move our family into a rental property in Hannibal, Missouri, when my brother and I were young boys. As our parents carried furniture and boxes into the house, Blake and I occupied ourselves in our usual fashion—a spirited wrestling match.

Though three and a half years separated us in age, my younger brother often proved to be a worthy adversary. Whenever he felt that I had gained the upper-hand in one of our skirmishes, Blake would employ his patented “kicking machine” technique in an attempt to fend off my attack. This method, one in which Blake would lie on his back and flail his legs as if he were frantically pedaling an invisible, inverted bicycle, inevitably provoked me to react in one of two ways: Uncontrollable laughter and/or uncontrollable rage.

 

On the occasion of our family’s move-in day, the only reaction I recall experiencing was an allergic one. As Blake and I rolled around on the deeply carpeted floor of our new living room, my eyes became itchy and watery. Naturally, I did what any child would do were he or she in my situation: I rubbed them ferociously. Within minutes, both of my eyes had swollen completely shut.

More worrisome was the fact that my airway was quickly closing as well. When it became obvious that I was having a severe allergic reaction, my parents whisked me away from the house and informed the landlord that we would not be taking occupancy of the premises after all. After that episode, I avoided cats as much as I could throughout my childhood.

Years later, during my college days, I made some close friendships with my coworkers at Eastgate Foods. All of them, unfortunately, had cats as pets. Whenever I visited any of their homes, I was careful to never touch my eyes, but I could do nothing to avoid the familiar tickle in my windpipe that occurred after breathing the cat-infused air for a few minutes.

In late October of 1993, during what proved to be the worst week of my life, I was evicted from my apartment, rejected by an old flame, and I dropped out of Mizzou to avoid flunking out. My friends Ed and Troy graciously allowed me to sleep on their couch until I could make other arrangements, but after two days of breathing the allergen-filled atmosphere of their two-cat household and puffing on a borrowed inhaler every few minutes, I realized that if I didn’t leave soon, I would probably die.

 

I considered living in the small storage unit I had rented until I could figure something else out, but instead I opted to move in with my father, his wife, and their two small children in northeast Iowa. A day or two after I arrived, Dad insisted on taking me to the emergency room where I was diagnosed with having a prolonged asthma attack triggered by my cat allergy.

 

The doctor said something about me being lucky to be alive, but after the week I’d just had, I didn’t feel very lucky at all. I can only imagine what he must have written in my medical chart: “22-year-old male, evicted, homeless, heartbroken, alcoholic, college dropout—deathly allergic to kitty cats. Diagnosis: asthmatic/pathetic. Prognosis: not good.”

Against all odds, I survived that historically horrible week, and everything else life has thrown at me since—including living with asthma. I’ve learned to limit my time of exposure to indoor cats and to always a have a rescue inhaler at the ready, just in case.

Almost fifteen years ago, a stray cat showed up at our house and had a litter of kittens. I took all of them to the vet to be spayed, got them their initial shots, and welcomed them to our homestead as “barn cats”. (Being in close proximity to cats while outdoors in fresh air doesn’t trigger my asthma.) One of those kittens is still with us today, a gray and white female named Boots.

 

Our neighbors have three cats, one of which, a calico named Ginger, decided she liked our accommodations better and has been living in and out of our garage for the last year or so. She and Bootsie get along well enough to follow our family on our evening walks down our gravel road most nights.

 

It was on one such stroll last week when we met our new cat, now called Dolly, who was near death when we found her starving and covered in fleas in the weeds beside our driveway. I’m happy to report that she has been eating and drinking well, is now free of fleas, and has made herself quite at home in our garage. As tiny as she is, the vet assured me that she’s no kitty. Dolly is, in her professional opinion, at least eight years old—and lucky to be alive.

 

Of course, I’m completely smitten with her.

Sam Clemens said, “Some people scorn a cat and think it not an essential; but the Clemens tribe are not of these.” Neither are the Naughtons.

Welcome to the family, Dolly.