Thing about the Dark Night of the Soul is that it is followed by the White Knight of the Soul, vis-à-vis morning. I went to bed on Friday, still painfully aware of the red rash on my face. That is to say, a modest array of painful bumps on my forehead, cheeks, and right eyelid. And these stinging sensations struck up a sort of harmony with the existing orthopedic aches emanating from much of my body. I have been thinking long and hard about the latter, by the way. A hot tub might be the perfect thing. But, no, not so perfect when one considers the insidious rash that has brought itself upon my visage. In fact, I could just see the nasty toxins of hot tub water inflaming the sick epidemiological malady working its insidious way down from my hairline. Yes, floating in hot water might be pleasantly amniotic, but I’m not so idiotic as to believe that all these pains weren’t blending into something absolutely evil.

Of course, I had consulted the Internet. Rashes are a common symptom. Including a sign of all kinds of dire maladies. Some of them fatal. And of course, I kept telling myself that, well, Jane has been saying me that the face is getting slightly better. But who can believe such reports? Especially at two in the morning. And I should add that this was the very hour when Poppy, delightful pitbull mix, burst into fierce canine song. Actually, in response to a marauding raccoon. We have a pear tree, And the tasteless fruits seem to be a favorite of urban mammal friends. Rats too. So the dog started going crazy, barking madly, and driving me, well, you know, Barking Mad.

Hard to say what Poppy really expects to get. Unless our dog is going to go crashing through the glass door to the terrace, and I don’t rule it out, It’s a futile quest. There are pears. There is no partridge in this pear tree. And trust me, Poppy, all the barking in the world isn’t going to make you a predator. In fact, in broad daylight, at least one raccoon has been known to scoot across the railing at the edge of our redwood deck and leap into the lemon tree owned by our neighbors on the other side. There to sit, and sort of give a raccoon laugh, at this enormous shrieking, powerful, dog.

Anyway, having been awakened by primal canine vibes, getting back to sleep was fraught. And things weren’t helped by the rash. Only a rash person would stop worrying about the thing. Do not send to know for whom the rash grows. After a couple of hours I did finally succumb. I slept. And in the morning, what is left on my rational mind, assembled the first rational diagnostic thought I’ve had in several days. In fact, it pulled together all available resources. Face. Dog. Allergies.

Tommy, our dog walker, takes the endlessly affectionate Poppy up and down the city’s Hills and Dales, including McLaren Park. This is actually the largest San Francisco park, named for John McLaren who designed Golden Gate Park. Anyway, McLaren is relatively wild. There is every reason to believe that a small patch of poison oak might be lurking in one or more gullies. Of course, the park is one big hill. Very little in San Francisco isn’t. I can just see her sniffing around, sticking her dog ‘s face here and there. And coming home with enough poison oak on her muzzle to do the trick. She absolutely loves rubbing her snout in our garden, for example. And 30 years ago when I fell off an adult tricycle into a patch of poison oak at Point Reyes National Seashore, just north of San Francisco, my doctor assured me that it was the worst reaction she had ever seen.

My face is definitely feeling better, by the way.