It was a long apartment hallway. I was on one end. The cat was on the other. She sniffed the air. “I love the smell of allergies in the morning.”

I was in San Francisco for a long weekend, visiting friends and attending the launch party for “Brush with Death,” the newest book in the series by Hailey Lind. (If you’re not reading them, you should be. They’re about art forgery. And really, what’s more fun than that?) I was crashing with two good friends and Lula. Lula the cat.

First I must explain that “allergies” seems far too benign a word for what happens should I be unmedicated while in the presence of felis domesticus. Within the hour, the eyes start to itch. Itch becomes ouch. Until eventually, the insides of my eyelids are lined with sandpaper that remove swaths of my corneas with every blink. It becomes necessary to wander about blindly, crashing into things in a desperate eyes-closed search for near-fatal levels of antihistamines. Should I fail to find the exit soon enough, my sinuses expand, my skin becomes inflamed and my throat begins to swell. Good times.

But I had come prepared. I was taking double doses of all possible allergy medications (not that I recommend this) and would be sleeping on never-before-used (i.e. cat-less) sheets. If only I could keep her from actually touching my face, I had every reason to believe all would be well.

Lula, however, had her own plans. Lula is the feline version of Kathy Bates in “Misery.” She will love you. She will love you and love you and love you until you DIE.

I sat down. Lula sat down next to me. I scooted. She scooted. We made our way from one end of the couch to the other. Cornered against the arm rest, she flicked her tail and laid it across my leg. She smiled. I panicked and made for the chair on the other side of the room. When her owner returned, Lula pouted and whimpered. “Oh don’t worry,” her human said picking her up, “Auntie Ashley loves you!”

Lula looked at me over the human’s shoulder, sneered and said, “Oh, it’s on now, bitch!”

I went to brush my teeth. She snuck in behind me and tried to climb up my leg. I went for a run. She hid and then ambushed me upon my return, attempting to lick my ankles. She stalked me, my luggage, even my half-finished soda cans were not safe from her furry attentions. Dander swirled. I took more drugs. She was relentless.

Three days later, we stared each other down for the last time across the couch. I was allergy attack-free. She was desperate and crazed. I picked up my overnight bag. She gave me the paw. “This isn’t over, Pinky! You will rue the day! Do you hear me? Do you?!”