The Tail of The Ex-Allergist

Here I am, all faptized, or if you prefer, dolled up, walking Sir Blakey in the Sherman Oaks countryside. I'm sorry, what's that? There's no lake in Sherman Oaks? And this elegant lady in pearls and chapeau looks nothing like me? And the dog doesn't resemble the Royal Rescue Pup on any level? How dare you! Have you had your eyes checked? This is me. And my -- okay fine, you're right. This photo is simply meant to tickle your imagination and nothing more. Sheesh. Get your mind out of the gutter. I want you should think of your SJG all decked out in finery while dog-walking, as opposed to my daily schlepwear. I'm trying to upgrade my profile after a round of stinging anonymous rebukes, a la, "Isn't it time for a wardrobe redo?" "Isn't Sir Blakey embarrassed to be seen with you?" "When's the last time you washed your hair?" You know, the kind of garden variety shaming to which I don't respond well.

May I continue? Thank you. Here's my neighbor/ex-allergist Dr. Sneeze, or perhaps a man who resembles him, eyeing me from his porch while I walk Blakey. My neighborhood may or may not be filled with Southern-style porches, but for the sake of today's ridiculata, just go with it. True, it's a little strange to live mere blocks from Dr. Sneeze, a medical man intimately acquainted with my ear, nose and throat. Many years ago, when the sons ordered us to get them a dog, and before he lived in my neighborhood, I rang up Dr. Sneeze and asked his opinion. All his charts show I'm allergic to pet dander, pet saliva, pet everything. Would I be risking my life to please the sons? (It wouldn't be the first or last time.) "It's not a good idea," Dr. Sneeze told me. "But, Dr. Sneeze," I said, "the boys want a dog and I do whatever they tell me to do." "If you do it, keep the dog outside." "You're kidding, right?" "And never let him in the house." "That's a horrible suggestion, Dr. Sneeze." "I've got another patient." Click.

So, I ignored Dr. Sneeze and the late, great Dusty arrived shortly thereafter, bringing joy, destruction and dander into our home, shedding his adorable hair everywhere for 14 years. I coughed and sneezed, per his prediction, but got better with time. At some point, Dr. Sneeze moved into the neighborhood, and whenever he saw me walking Dusty, he'd say things like, "So, that's the dog?" "Yep," I'd say. That was the extent of the conversation. Then Dr. Sneeze retired, and Dusty moved to the heavenly section reserved for bagel-loving dogs. 

Then Sir Blakey moved in, a situation that continues to bewilder Dr. Sneeze whenever he sees us out for a stroll. For nearly three years now, any time I see Dr. Sneeze, our conversations go something like this, with little if any variation: "Which dog is that?" "Blakey." "What happened to the other dog?" "He died." Yesterday, he switched things up: "Same dog?" he yelled out. "Same dog," I said, "different day."