Sooo how much is that life insurance policy worth??

That’s what I want to ask a relative. They must have a huge policy out on my life for the foolywag shenanigans I’ve had to put up with.

This particular relative has a dog. (I won’t name relations but to my family who reads this blog they will know who I’m talking about and they better not tell that I’m on to this relative’s plot…hahahaha). To say that this relative owns the dog is not quite accurate. This designer mutt has a last name, goes to spas, and has racked up quite an impressive amount of frequent flyer miles in its young lifetime. The dog has gone to college graduations and almost to a wedding (opted for a spa day instead). The lil bitch is living the good life (insert Kanye’s synthesized voice here and throw your hands up to the skyyyy). Apparently, the dog even barks shotgun because it always sits in the passenger seat, and humans must sit in the back or not ride in this relative’s car at all. If the dog ain’t comfy, WALK (insert Bill Bellamy as Hollywood in Love Jones here)!

So what’s my problem with this canine addition to my family tree? I’m allergic to dogs. Red itchy eyes, red blotchy skin, a sneeze symphony, the works. And to make matters worse, I’m severely allergic to this dog. I’ve gone to this relative’s house and had to leave because this dog takes my breath away. Literally. And not in a good way either.

On Sunday, I had Mother’s Day dinner at my apartment. Everyone knows that I am allergic to the designer mutt, so I didn’t think I actually had to call this relative to inform them not to bring the dog to my house. Common sense, right? Common sense must have had the day off to celebrate with his momma because he damn sure didn’t make an appearance with this relative. I answered the door and lo and behold, there’s my lovely relative carrying their mangy mutt. (sidebar: why do people carry dogs? don't they have more legs than people?? I'm just sayin')

Me: “You really brought the dog? Over here? To my place?”
Relative: “I sure did. Get me an old plastic container to give [dog’s name] some water.”
Me: “Ummmmmm, are we forgetting I’m allergic?!”
Relative: “You have medicine. You’ll be alright.”
Me: Shaking my head in disbelief.

Now I could have gotten all indignant with this relative, Larry David style, and told this relative to WALK (again, insert about Love Jones reference here). But I didn’t. First, my mother would have killed me (but then later told me I was right to refuse canine entry into my humble abode). And second, while my family royally gets on my nerves, I don’t see them often so I popped a Claritin and hoped for the best.

Initially, everything worked out. Whenever I got a chance to sit, I sat in my dining room, while the relative and the 4-legged family member sat in the living room watching movies. From time to time my throat felt scratchy, but either I was too busy or too tired to cater to the allergy symptom.

Finally, it was time to leave. Everyone had packed their doggy bags (no scraps for fido) and goodbye kisses (again, no love for fido). Once the house was empty, I went about tackling the Mt. Kilimanjaro of dishes stacked in my kitchen. (Next time these fools are using paper plates, cups and forks or my next spot must come with a dishwasher. Or better yet, how about we just order pizza for the next holiday meal????!!)

Exhausted, I collapse on my new sofa and sink into the firm comfy-ness of its cushions. Oh, I am going to fall asleep right here I think to myself as my eyelids hide the glow of the TV from my eyes. Ooooh sleep feels so good when you are exhausted as I am. I snuggle my accent pillow likes it’s the softest hypo-allergenic bed pillow money could buy. This is going to be a good sleep.

Cough. Gasp. Cough. Cough. Gasp. Gasp.

I can’t breathe. That’s the first thought that pops into my mind. What the fuck?! My choking wakes me up from my sleep induced coma with a force that scares me. I’ve never had this feeling before. I fight to inhale some good old fashion oxygen but continue to cough. I run to the bathroom and as I fill my cup with water from the bathroom sink, I look in the mirror. My entire chest is covered in red spots like a child had gotten a magic marker and decided to make me their canvas. That’s when it hit me. THAT DAMN DOG. I searched my medicine cabinet for some stronger allergy medicine (and contemplate going to the ER), and I'm thinking about how I could have come in contact with the dog and why did it hit me hours later. And like a flashback in a soap opera, it comes to me. My relative always sits with that dog in their lap and I recall seeing the relative sitting on my new sofa at some point. Putting two and two together, I surmise the dog must have been up on my sofa. (Sidebar: why is the saying two and two; why not 3 and 3 or 4 and 4, etc??? just sayin’).

No need to call Agatha Christie or Precious Ramotswe of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency (love this show) because I have figured this out. There must be a hefty life insurance policy somewhere out there on my life and this relative is the beneficiary. I joke with my mom, “Your [relative’s relation to my momma] is tryin’ to kill me.” and we laugh but this time as I look at these blotches and slowly catch my breath as the stronger meds take effect, I’m not so sure I’m joking anymore. So if I die from an allergy attack, look for the furry mourner in the black dress. That’s my killer. And if any of my relatives start driving Bentleys with customized doggie front passenger seats after I'm gone, call the cops.