When I was younger, my main quest in life was to own a dog.
Unfortunately, as a child, I was allergic to dogs which was slightly problematic considering I had designed my whole life’s purpose around them.
I first found out that I was allergic to dogs when I went to stay at my grandparent’s house during the summer holidays. I was excited because my grandma had recently bought a Yorkshire terrier called Joey. I saw this as the perfect opportunity to convince my parents that getting a dog was a good idea. Once they saw how happy the dog made me, I reasoned, it would be quite frankly barbaric of them to deprive me of one (that joy).
As soon as we arrived, I flung myself at an unsuspecting Joey, manically smiling at my parents, determined to covey the depth of joy I was experiencing. And I was. I was genuinely happy. For a bit.
After a few minutes, however, I started to feel distinctly less happy. I started sneezing uncontrollably and, before long, my eyes had become swollen and watery. However, not wanting to be defeated by red eyes and a runny nose, I continued to cling to Joey as if my life depended on it.
It was only when my symptoms progressed into a full-on asthma attack that I finally relented and agreed to swap Joey for some anti-histamines.