By Cheryl Burns

Back when I was dating, I had one hard-and-fast rule: no pets. It wasn’t that I didn’t love animals. Quite the opposite. I adore them. I can’t pass one without quietly whispering “Hi puppy” or “Hi kitten.” (Can we agree that those words apply to furballs of any age?) But I also vividly remember my mother standing over my eight-year-old self and asking allergist what the REALLY big, swollen, terribly reactive spot was testing. His reply? Dog. He made it clear that any sort of furry friend was simply out of the question. Forever.

So, when I was dating, I not only worried I’d fall in love with a pet more than their person, I also worried about the endgame. If things went well, it seemed it would come down to me or the pet. And there’s no way I could ask anyone to make that decision. Pet-free partners, please.

Taking the Risk and Becoming an Allergic Owner

I found a pet-free guy. We happily enjoyed fish and fully aquatic frogs (an article for another day!). It helped that he was allergic too. But less than six months after our wedding, his beloved mother passed. She had recently adopted a cat, a sweet gray tuxie who’d accompanied us to hospice in the final days. I knew it was coming. And how could the answer be anything but “of course” when he looked at me with sad eyes, furball in hand, and said “I kinda want to take the cat.” A hospice staffer—one who hadn’t realized a cat was quietly sitting with me in the corner of the couch until she saw the litter in the bathroom—had offered, but we knew the real answer. Besides, Smoky Tiggs had already chosen us, frequenting our laps more than those of others during those hard days.

I was worried. At the time, I was being treated for chronic pain, pain bad enough that I was legally disabled. I truly don’t have the words to describe it, and I like words. My doctor had said in no uncertain terms that he’d work with me as long as I was smart—no heavy lifting, no driveway shoveling, nothing that would make it even worse. So, I worried what he’d say when I told him that I’d found myself, a very allergic gal, adopted by a cat. When I did, he looked me right in the eyes as he replied, “Cheryl, it’s the best decision you’ve ever made. We’ll figure it out.”

Adjusting (With My Doctor’s Help)

It took a while. For other allergy sufferers who want to defy their bodies and adopt a furry companion, expect some work. We tried a few different medications before arriving at a combination that worked and eventually added a second nasal spray to the mix.

I made a concerted effort to keep the bedroom cat-free. Smoky didn’t love this, and she let us know, but she learned and adapted (read: stopped hollering, at least until breakfast). Until my body settled down a bit, I even changed clothes before entering the bedroom. Certainly, there was still dander in the air—it wasn’t a true “clean room”—but I think it helped. Eventually, when it was another feline waiting (much less patiently), we caved. Still, I think the separation helped my body adjust, particularly once the arrival of COVID meant rarely leaving the cat behind.

The Rewards

In the end, my doctor was right. While it took a good bit of time and a bit more of a drugstore bill, saving Smoky Tiggs saved me.

My husband left for work early each day. Before Smoky’s arrival, I spent much of the day in bed. I might grab my laptop—I did a little bit of ghostwriting to keep my mind active (emphasis on little because 500 words took hours when my brain was overwhelmed)—but I didn’t do much. Honestly, in those days, with pain hovering at least a 7.5 of 10 even with strong medication, putting my feet on the floor took more than I had.

Enter Smoky. She was patient. She didn’t sit and whine outside the closed bedroom door. But I knew she was there. Waiting. She was a social cat. She needed me. So, I figured it out. I put my feet on the floor because I knew she’d be sitting on the other side of that door, waiting patiently, staring up at me. If I sat at the table, she’d leap up to my lap and snuggle in. If I sat elsewhere and my laptop took my lap (the nerve!), she’d balance on the back or arm of my chair. She cared for me on the worst days. She had the sweetest softest purr. It was magic. She gave me a reason to fight, a reason to move well before my husband returned home at 5. I think, even though she never really wanted a sibling, she even made sure I was in the hands—paws—of another kitty before she moved on in Fall 2021. See you at the bridge, my dear.

I still take medicine to manage my allergies. And the love I’ve gotten from taking the risk is worth every pill, every sniffle, every red eye. Not even a close call.

For more tips on managing pet allergies search these sites:

• How to Beat Dog and Cat Allergies When You Have Pets
• Pet Allergies
• How To Live with Allergies and Pets

About the Author: Cheryl Burns is a Senior Legal Editor and Subject Matter Expert with BARBRI, a legal education company. She now resides in quiet Central Pennsylvania, but she’s still a proud King Street Cats supporter (and not just because Sweet Potato Bailey Burns (f/k/a just Bailey) is an alum!).