I was talking about dogs with my doctor the other day, possibly the least awkward conversation I could have with the woman who not only helped my mom give birth to me, but has seen me naked numerous times since then.
I started the conversation by asking whether someone with asthma could be allergy tested to determine if it is the cat or the dog of the house that is affecting their asthma. As someone firmly in the dog-lover camp (she was a dachshund breeder for a number of years), she assured me it was almost guaranteed to be the cat, but that, yes, there are allergy tests for that. The same tests, in fact, that confirmed that Doodle is somewhat allergic to dogs, very allergic to cats, extremely allergic to hamsters, and hazardously allergic to Yellow Jackets (the bee, not the fashion accessory – those, I found out in my last daytime-TV viewing session, are ‘in’ this season, in case you were wondering, and unlikely to cause Doodle to be asphyxiated), in a ‘carry around an epipen’ kind of way.
On a side-note, and with no further proof than that my doctor told me so, apparently darker coloured cats are higher in allergen. This wasn’t a valid enough argument for me getting a fluffy white evil-mastermind cat, according to my parents. I was going to name him Moriarty.
As we continued talking, I mentioned wishing that I could adopt a certain blonde dog, whose owners might possibly be considering getting rid of her, due to youngest child’s asthma. Whether it’s actually the asthma that’s making them decide this, or the fact that it’s been two weeks since I’ve walked the poor thing due to ankle issues, and she might just be a whirling dervish by now, I don’t know. More on that drama later. It would, however, require me to get my own place in quite short order, since my parents aren’t interested in a second dog, let alone a first.
My doctor was a bit surprised. Are you going to take Gwynn with you when you move out?
Well… yes. He’s my dog. (side note: it is amazing how many times I’ve had that question asked of me… people seem genuinely surprised at the idea of the person who walks, feeds, grooms, takes to vet, pays for all aspects of doggy ownership, and vacuums up the mini-Gwynn tumbleweeds would be the one to keep the dog when she moves out.)
Your parents are really going to miss him.
This is when I found out that the last time my dad was in, he took advantage of using this least-awkward-conversation-topic, too. He spent his last checkup showing the doctor pictures of a certain orange fluffy grandchild.
Added to the times I’ve approached the kitchen and stopped out of sight to listen to my Dad’s conversations with Gwynn (are you a good boy? You are a good boy. You get cheese! Good boy! Good dogs like you get cheese! … or whatever food he happens to be chopping, if it’s dog-safe ), my dad’s rep as ‘not a dog person’ is pretty much toast.
Well, now we know who the favourite is.