Spottswood and Harvey in the Burbs

I am allergic to cats. I am deathly allergic to cats. They don't actually make me die, but when I'm exposed to them, I pretty much fall to my knees, begging for a swift and merciful death.

My eyes burn, my nose leaks, and histamines surge through my body, attempting to destroy my white Scottish ass.

So, obviously, Ian has cats.

Woo, boy, has it been fun.

I'm allergic to most things, including dogs. However, Winnie is hypoallergenic, meaning she doesn't shed or provoke allergic reactions.

Laura: "I'm so allergic to your cats. I think I'm going to die."

Ian: "I'm allergic to your dog."

Laura: "That's impossible."

Ian: "I am allergic to your dog."

Laura: "You're allergic to her bullshit."

Over time, I've adjusted to the cats, so they no longer inspire violent allergic reactions. I've swallowed enough cat hair to produce some immunologic therapy. It's like cheap, convenient allergy shots.

Ian: "I should put cat hair in your water."

Laura: "It's the only way..."

Ian has two tuxedo cats, Spottswood and Harvey. Spottswood's a sensitive, wide-eyed, perpetually frightened cat. He's scared of the refrigerator and the washing machine and lumpy blankets and sudden movement.

In the early days, he was scared of Winnie. When Winnie first trotted into Ian's house, Spottswood took one look and fled.

Spottswood tends to hide in the liter box room. In the house, it's accessible by cat door only. Ian affectionately calls it the Doo Doo Room.

The Doo Doo Room also functions as the Panic Room. When I started dating Ian, Spottswood spent the majority of his time in the Panic Room.

He's since grown accustomed to the dog, and the two even sorta play together.

Laura: "Aww, they're playing!"

Ian: "Winnie's just biting his toes."

Laura: "They're playing chase!"

Ian: "He's just running to the Panic Room. Look."

Laura: "They love each other!"

Ian: "Hmm."

Harvey is the dominant cat. He provides a foil for Spottswood. Whereas Spottswood is slender and elegant, Harvey is rotund and awkward.

Laura: "Which one's the smart one and which one's the dumb one?"

Ian: "I don't think there's a smart one or a dumb one. I think there's just a fat one and a skinny one."

Laura: "Oh."

Harvey's a big, fat lumpy thing, but he's charming in a big, fat lumpy way. We joke that he craves cheeseburgers and milkshakes and french fries and other traditional American food.

The first time Winnie walked too close to Harvey, Harvey hooked her face, yielding a puppy-sized bloodbath. Here's my crappy illustration of the traumatic event. (Please note: this is why Ian draws the cartoons).

For months afterwards, Winnie emitted ear-piercing shrieks every time Harvey looked at her. It was a tense situation.

Ian: "We've been invited to a dinner tonight. We'd have to leave the dog alone with the cats."

Laura: "It's cool. Harvey can babysit."

Winnie and Harvey eventually chilled. Now they play outside together. Winnie tears around the yard in circles and Harvey lumbers through the grass.

And Spottswood stares wide-eyed through the glass door, terrified of a world with no Panic Room.

Laura: "I could swear you beat him."

Ian: "I think we neutered him too early."