Just kidding. Claritin works.
Mowing's done. Time for a frosty adult beverage and the last couple dozen pages of At The Mountains of Madness on the front porch. Believe it or not, this is the first H.P. Lovecraft I've ever read. I got to the point last night, just after midnight, where the narrator had flown over the mountains. I was reading it in bed, feeling a little toasty and sweaty, no doubt running a bit of a fever from my sudden bizarro allergies.
As my eyelids got almost as heavy as the weight of knowing I had to be up early, I turned off the light. I tossed and turned under the covers, peeling the blanket back and sticking a leg or two out into the air for cooling... no sooner had I drifted off to slumberland than I heard this weird keening and a skritch-skritch-skritch noise. Then a cold draft blew across my legs and the flapping shade over the open window flashed white from the thunderstorm brewing outside. Perfect!