Casey and I relaxing.

Casey Dylan Harney and I had a very close relationship.

He was named by my brother Tim when adopted as a puppy near Amherst, Mass.

I called him Casey-Basey-Facey, August-Doggest and many other names. Coaxed him with Liv-A-Snaps and Chew-eez. Celebrated his birthdays with McDonalds burgers, wrote the classic, “Don’t eat your paw, because then you’ll eat your ma … and your aunts and uncles.”

In high school and college years, I recall Casey staring at me suspiciously some nights when I’d come in after being out with friends.

In more innocent times, Casey and I invented a sport called shlappers.

Shlappers left a slew of gooey tennis-ball marks on the walls of “the office” in the home where I grew up. A surfeit of fur and doggie germs.

Shlappers rules … seem ageless?

Four decades later, my own family, now with two grown kids, was ready to rescue a new dog. We began to investigate dog-proofing the house. And having always been allergic to cats, I decided I should make sure I hadn’t developed a dog allergy before getting a pup.

My visit to the allergy department was one of those rare medical appointments where I felt very relaxed. I felt like I aced the medical history questionnaire, relatively speaking. I was sure from the Casey days that no dog allergy would be found. In the doctor’s office, I settled in to reading My Struggle: Book 2 by Karl Ove Knausgaard while the skin tests were taken and evaluated. I was looking forward to getting home and letting my family know that I was ready for a dog, if not another Casey.

Then the dreaded news was delivery gently. I am now allergic to dogs. No more shlappers. And some dashed hopes at home.