THE SEVEN-MONTH ITCH

Friday, 03 February 2017 19:15

by Nancy Cohen. From HOWL: A Collection of Contemporary Dog Wit (Three Rivers Press)

Kenyon sleeps in our bed. And not just in the bed, but nestled between my husband and me, mostly against me. I fall asleep holding his tiny terrier ribcage in my palm with his warm back pressed against my chest. As I synchronize my breaths with his, I imagine opening a doggie/human pranayama yoga studio teaching this stuff. (I live in L.A.)  And sometimes, if the mood’s just right, he uses my head as his pillow — which, of course, I take as quite the compliment. He’s my twenty-two pound dose of Xanax. 

 I awake one morning to Kenyon licking my face like I’ve just dipped it in squirrel-flavored ice cream. Although this feels damn good, I can’t help but wonder if my canine alarm clock is telling me something’s wrong, like the time he wagged his tail extra hard not to show how much he loves me but because he had a kidney infection. So I get up to see what the big deal is re: my face. EWWW! I have swollen red welts under my eyes and around my mouth, neck and jaw-line. Hours later, the welts morph into bigger, redder welts. And later on, they puff up. Then flake off. Now I have clumps of dry, scaly patches. This is not pretty, especially in L.A. No wonder Kenyon woke me.

I pack K-Mutt in the car. (I recently counted; Kenyon has 24 nicknames.)  We head to a fancy dermatologist in Beverly Hills, which Einstein Eyebrows is up for because as long as there’s an open window and air shot up his nose at 65 mph he’s happy. The doctor gives me a prescription cream to use sparingly. “It can tear the facial skin,” he says. What’s not pretty in any city?  Seeing a woman’s veins through her face.

My neighbor with perfect skin notices my complexion through Wiggly Worm’s nose-printed car window. “You have to see my Ayurvedist,” she insists, even after I insist I have no idea what one is. Finally, Captain Triangle-Teeth and I agree to some “Ayurveda-ing” and wind up at the only not-nice house in the Pacific Palisades. But he refuses to budge from the car, even for a privet hedge sniff-a-thon.

After a cursory examination, this sixty year-old with a ponytail four times the length of Kenyatta’s tail informs me via staring at my tongue that I’m allergic to sulfites. “Avoid food and drink containing them,” he tells me through a yawn, during which I see his uvula. (FYI, sulfites are what they put in food to make it last beyond a day. Another FYI:  Kenyon’s uvula has black spots on it, as does the entire inside of his mouth.) I get back in the car and tell Señor Waggles the news. Licking his sulfite-riddled pig’s ear, he gloats, as if simultaneously coughing the word “bullshit.” Nevertheless, Scruffopolis and I are off to the health food store to pick up a couple hundred dollars of sulfite-free wine, biodynamic vegetables, and cuddled cold cuts.

For the next week, I live additive-free. For the next week my face is still itchy and splotchy and Velvet Ears can’t get enough of it.

“Want to go for a ride?” I ask C.P.C.E. (Curbside Pizza Crust Eater), who’s already on board, sniffing my Uggs at the door.

We arrive at the office of an allergist, recommended by my fancy Beverly Hills dermatologist. While Swan-Neckia Jr. pants rhythmically out of the crack of the window guarding my sunglass case and ear buds, I lie on a cot on my stomach as a porcupine’s worth of needles are thrust into my back.  Half-naked and itching, I’m mostly fretting about how long I’ve left my pal in the car. When the doctor returns, he informs me that I am a very allergic girl.

“Still sulfites?”

“No, not sulfites,” he says, “dust mites, grass, pollen, cats, and dogs.”

“DOGS?! NO WAY!!” I reply. But then he pokes the itchiest part of my back, the spot where he’d injected me with canine. “You’ll have to get rid of your dog,” he instructs me, as if he were telling me to keep all of my receipts for income tax purposes.

When he notices my eyes welling with tears, Needles (the allergist, not another nickname for Kenyon) relents a bit. “At least don’t let the dog in your bed.”

“But our dog has always shared our bed! We can’t take that away or he’ll think he did something wrong! Plus, hugging him helps me relax and sleep!”

Needles responds: “Don’t you have a husband?”

I drive home, crying hysterically. Our Leader looks at me quizzically and offers his paw. I take it, look deep into his cocoa-brown eyes and give it to him straight. “There is no way I’d ever ever EVER get rid of you.” He wags his tail heartily, licks my elbow, and takes another hit of air out the window.

The next day I leave the Prince-of-K sunbathing on the shag carpet and visit a different dermatologist, also fancy, also in Beverly Hills. She gives me the same face-dissolving cream the first one doled out. When I get home the Barrel-Chested Creature barely looks up; he knew this would be a waste of time. I lie down on the floor and hug him as I wonder if we should just leave L.A. and go someplace where people don’t judge women with blisters and flakey lumps on their faces. He breathes into my ear as if to say everything’s going to be okay. Easy for him. He hasn’t lost his looks.

Weeks later and still welty, a Sherman Oaks acupuncturist suggests I make the Bearded Wonder an outdoor dog. When I run this by Monketta Malone, he flashes his pointy little grin. Works for him. But what does he know? He thinks coyotes are just extra-fun dogs with no parents, not vicious beasts who want to lure him into a game of tag and eat him like it’s sunset after Yom Kippur.

At the dog park I share my woes with a sympathetic stranger who writes down the number of her West Hollywood homoeopathist. The homoeopath, an exuberant Swede in a halter-top, mixes me a potion of liquid dog hair to put under my tongue three times a day. I do so in the bathroom mirror — as if I can’t find my tongue otherwise — while the Little Man watches, giving his body a good shake that causes a bouquet of dog hair to fly into the air. A simple reminder that I could’ve gotten this particular remedy for free.

My sadness continues, my welts remain; nothing works. I cancel our trip back East to see my mother because I know my face will upset her.

I resolve not to cuddle Beetlepooch. I only pet him with my feet and he’s confined to the bottom right-hand corner of the bed. And since Sir Barks-a-Little is accustomed to sitting on my lap in the passenger seat while my husband drives, nuzzling his neck against mine as he sucks in his fresh air (okay, it’s smog, but I haven’t told him yet)–  I let His Highness have that seat while I ride in the back. He occasionally stares at me, as do other drivers and pedestrians, wondering why we’re separated by two feet of headrest, carpet, and my rollerblades which haven’t seen asphalt for six years. “It’s temporary, Pup-Headia. Mommy will be with you as soon as she gets better,” I say, and pray – but not on my knees or anything.

This lasts for two days. Just like when I was single and had too much to drink at bars and hugged men I shouldn’t, now I’m having too much to drink at home and hugging my dog when I shouldn’t.

The clerk at our neighborhood pet shop, who also fixes computers for $35 an hour less than our regular computer guy, gives me the card of a Chinese herbalist in San Gabriel. Since we adopted Teddy Bear Nose in nearby El Monte, I have a good feeling about this referral.

In broken English, Dr. Tsao, who has cinnamon-y breath, tells me to smear baby oil onto my face three times a day. The oil is to be followed by Dr. Tsao’s special white lotion that, unfortunately, doesn’t exactly absorb into the skin. (Good thing I work at home because I look like a porn star who just finished her shift.) I’m also instructed to take fifteen of his herb-pills a day, refrain from hot showers and workouts, avoid mango, red meat, dairy, sushi, coffee, and wine for two solid weeks. I go back to the car and inform Growls McGee that it all seems do-able, except for the coffee and cabernet part. He licks my wrist and sticks his head out the window. Maybe he can smell his parents in El Monte.

For two days I smear baby oil and white ointment on my lesions while Ferret Face watches. Still nothing. I go out for coffee with my girlfriend and have tea since Dr. Porno Cream said no coffee. My friend doesn’t have to ask how it’s going. She sees the answer in my bumpy maroon, glassy-eyed face. After a few sips of her delicious looking latte with a perfectly drawn heart in almond milk, she asks what make-up I’m using.

“Oh, a great new foundation I got at the eyebrow place.”

“How long have you been using it?”

“I don’t know, a while. Seven months-ish.”

She asks how long I’ve been a walking ugly face ad? (My words, not hers.) “Seven months-ish.”

Now I’m no logician but maybe there’s a connection here. Even though the

foundation was expensive, I decide to stop using it. Since the texture is so lusciously creamy, I even hide it from myself so I won’t be tempted. And after a week of not using foundation from the eyebrow place, guess what?  Girlfriend is right. I AM CURED. No itches, no splotches, no redness. I have normal skin again! I hug Li’l Beasty Boy to celebrate! I eat dairy to celebrate! I buy mangos and ruin my favorite T-shirt while cutting them to celebrate!

Seven months to the day, it’s dinner for my girlfriend (sushi!) and fuck you to the eyebrow place that sells foundation and everyone else who tried to break up me and my dog because Kenyon and I are again cuddling at night and at least twice during the day. And I’m proud to report that not only has my head become his permanent pillow, but my shoulder his ottoman. Although I still ride in the back seat of my husband’s car because I kinda like it — and Sock-Pawed Giraffy Legs prefers having the front seat to himself.

 

Nancy Cohen is a TV writer who is no longer itching.