4.4

Sometimes, he snorks in the night. I roll over and look at the little dog bed on the floor and watch his feet do a slow windmill or two. He heaves a huge sigh and there's the smallest whine in it; he sounds like he's having trouble breathing. Poor pooch. He's allergic to household dust and dust mites. I can't vacuum enough or take good enough care of the house to really fight that. I'm moving. In fact, I'm afraid he's getting worse. Every time I move a piece of furniture, I vacuum underneath it. Every time, there's a huge billow of smoky dust in the suction chamber.
The specialist vet, when she pulled up the paper to show what he was allergic to, pointed out his extreme allergy to dust, dust mites, Johnson grass, and moths. She was trying to save me from knowing. She was trying to save me from this fact: household dust isn't just dirt that drifted in from outside and settled on my bookshelves and fan blades and range hood. There's not that much dirt from the air. The dust in my house is me--my skin. Watson is allergic to me.
He still lays down on my feet. He still licks my hands. He still snuffles my hair when I'm tying my shoes. I don't know if he's made the connection yet--that I'm the one making him so sick--but if he has, he hasn't let on. He chooses me.

Happy birthday, Watsbutt. Congrats on surviving to two years old.