My Dog Has Allergies and My Bank Account Is Developing Trust Issues
I used to think having a dog would involve scenic walks, tasteful bandanas, and the occasional muddy paw print. I did not anticipate becoming the CEO of an international allergy task force headquartered in my kitchen. My dog isn't even two years old, and somehow he has more specialists than a retired rock star, football player, and retired movie stunt double, combined. I have now reached the stage where he has her own filing system. Not an actual filing cabinet because those are ugly and depressing, but a floral accordion folder bulging with lab reports, prescriptions, ingredient lists, and notes that say things like "Ask about duck?" and "Maybe lamb?" and "Who decided chicken should be in absolutely everything?" I carry it into appointments like a woman presenting classified government documents.
The truly astonishing part is that every veterinarian seems to begin with a dramatic retelling of why the previous veterinarian was wrong. One says it's environmental. Another says it's food. A third gently suggests it's probably both while looking at me in a way that implies I should somehow have solved immunology by now. Meanwhile, my poor Finn is just scratching away, blissfully unaware that he has become the center of a very expensive committee meeting. My bank account, I should mention, has stopped making eye contact with me. Won’t return my calls. And my texts get left on “delivered.” There are special shampoos, prescription wipes, supplements, tiny treats that cost more per ounce than jewelry, and foods with ingredient panels so mysterious they sound like they were developed for astronauts. Every time I think, "This has to be the answer," another invoice arrives and another patch of itchy skin pops up to remind me that certainty is a luxury item.
But the money isn't the part that breaks me. It's watching someone you love be uncomfortable when they can't explain what's wrong. He looks at me with complete trust, wagging his tail after yet another bath he didn't ask for, another pill hidden in cheese, another trip to another clinic where strangers inspect his ears and paws. He never complains. He just keeps believing that wherever we're going, I'm taking him somewhere fun. Sometimes I catch myself apologizing to him. "I'm trying, sweetheart," I'll whisper while rubbing his ears. "We're going to figure this out." Then he’ll lick my hand as if to reassure me that he's already forgiven every failed food trial and every bottle of shampoo that promised miracles but delivered disappointment with a faint oatmeal scent.
People say money can't buy happiness, but it can certainly buy an impressive collection of unopened allergy remedies that looked promising at 11:30 on a Tuesday night. I make another appointment. I read another article before bed. I compare ingredient labels like they're ancient treasure maps. I celebrate tiny victories with embarrassing enthusiasm. "Look!" I'll announce to the empty kitchen. "He only scratched three times during breakfast!" Somewhere out there I hope there's one missing puzzle piece, whether it's the right food, the right medication, the right specialist, or the right season.
Until then, I'll keep showing up with my floral folder and my increasingly frazzled optimism because he’s worth every frustrating phone call and every penny I don't really have. After all, he's not asking for designer toys or gourmet biscuits or a luxury dog spa. He's asking for the simple privilege of feeling comfortable in his own skin. And if love could cure allergies, he'd have been healed a very long time ago!
