Prompt for May 7--Write about Pets

I once thought I was allergic to dogs. For much of my life, my nose ran, I sniffed, my skin burned--I itched, my lungs seized--I took two puffs of an inhaler. The list of allergens positive on the skin tests was three pages long and printed on letterhead. I was not to sleep in a room with books, stuffed animals, or carpets. My parents were to buy allergy covers for my bed and pillows. An air filtration system would be nice. Oh--and--a nasal inhaler. Essential. Well, my mother couldn't stick to a diet for a week, couldn't keep my brother from eating caramel and popcorn with his braces and certainly could not get me to empty and clean my room. One of my favorite things to do when I was bored was organize my book shelf alphabetically. I couldn't keep myself out of used book stores, or thrift stores (dust), started smoking when I was sixteen, and walked all over town in the open air, no matter what the pollen threat was. Dogs though, and cats, I avoided. We didn't have them when I was young and when my mom did bring home a stray I was eleven and ignorant about how to behave around dogs and unwilling to compete with my dimple-cheeked three year old sister who flung herself on the dog completely, without reserve. Whatever, I thought. She'd probably kill him anyway. Like when she fed pepperoni pizza to my goldfish. So, I never understood the whole dog thing, didn't see myself as needing that kind of ultimate devotion, that kind of dripping, tail-wagging affection. I was not a dog person and I proved that by allowing my sister's puppy to follow me one afternoon to the bus stop. I saw the puppy's sad little face as my bus pulled away and felt bad, but not bad enough to be late to work, though I didn't realize the puppy wouldn't be able to find his way home. My sister, of course, never forgave me, though she says she did, and the story became one of those stories family clings to to try to define its members. I didn't like dogs. I wasn't a dog person. In fact, one time I'd stranded a puppy at...
So, how is it that at thirty-three, I drove back roads to Tenino to buy a puppy at 9 PM on a school night for my eleven year old son?
I've been practically allergy free for years. Chances are I'll never have a second child. Winston is an only child who has never had to take care of anything. He wanted a dog. When he talked about it, the corners of his mouth turned up. Sure, he had no idea what he was getting into, may not take on as much responsibility as he should, but then there is this other thing in me--this thing that rails against being labeled "not a dog person", a picky person, a real bitch when she wants, stand-offish, kill joy. It took me 'til now to realize that I may have been a dog person after all, that I might have been a dog person all along.
I'm trying to cultivate the calm, assertive energy that Caesar promotes as pack leader, as I fumble through this bumpy territory of puppy training. But today, the first thing I did when I got home from work was give a literally jumping for joy puppy a tummy rub. Then, my whole family played Frisbee at the park while the puppy ran back and forth between us on the soft, green grass. Now, I'm drinking a cup of hot cocoa and writing about pets. :)