The Work Cat

Work Cat
Look Who Showed Up at the J.O.B.

This little guy came screaming across the parking lot this morning, begging The Little Admin Lady to please, please, PLEASE let him in the warm and friendly-looking place she was attempting to unlock for the day. The place I work is warm and friendly, but it’s no place for a cat, much as The Little Admin Lady (not to mention the rest of us that fell in love with the skin-and-bones thing that she sneaked into her office) would have liked to have let him stay.

We thought it would be really cool to have a “Work Cat”. He could have wandered around and visited us in all our little offices in turn, chatting us up, collecting treats and being spoiled in the manner that every proper cat deems to be its right. It’s a Cat, after all. We had to admit, though, that our really cool idea wouldn’t fly. It wouldn’t, in all likelihood, be very safe for The Cat.

My J.O.B. is a “secure facility” kind of place. I have a key to the one entrance that I’m “officially authorized” to enter, and another key to my office. Many other doors, to many other areas are locked (most of the time). Some are unlocked, but alarmed (some of the time). I dare not attempt to sneak from one area of the building to another by any means other than the one route I know I’m “officially authorized” to take, for fear that a door that is usually silent when opened might shriek “Intruder! Intruder!” the one time I get the guts up to open it. It could happen – has happened. Thankfully, not to me, cuz I don’t know for certain what happened to those people that have set the alarms off. I only know that every once in awhile, after an alarm has gone off, I slowly begin to realize that I no longer see a face that I’ve grown accustomed to passing in the hall. Hmmmm.

Anyway, back to The Cat. We discussed it, and decided that if he got himself closed off on the wrong side of certain doors, we may never see him again. He was a friendly little bugger, too. Didn’t matter which one of us was holding him (and we didn’t dare set him on the floor, because the one time The Little Admin Lady put him down, he went foraging in a trash can and dragged yesterday’s lunch leftovers out before she had the chance to stop him), he would snuggle and purr and tell us he would love us forever and ever and ever, and maybe I’m a “Real” Girl, after all, cuz I almost agreed to take him home with me. On account of how much I truly enjoy both the morning and evening scooping rituals involved with supporting the two cats that own me now.

Luckily, The Countess of Cool is most definitely a “Real” Girl, because she started to cry over him and what his Fate would be before I had the chance to cave and smuggle him into my packsack.

And so, we “Real” Girls discussed what Fate that might be. The best Fate, of course, would be to find a home for him among the warm and friendly people that we work with. We went over the staff list, and took The Cat to be introduced to those that we thought might fall in love with him, one by one. Most did fall in love with him, too. Hard not to, really, when The Cat made a very realistic show of falling in love with every person that looked at him.

And everybody wanted to take him home.

But no one would actually agree to take him home.

And so Fate #2 came into play. Sigh…* And Pout…* And Damn, even. It fell to The Countess of Cool to deliver The Cat to the local Humane Society. And it fell to me, to accompany the Countess (“Someone has to hold The Cat.”). Damn.

And The Cat loved the car ride.

We comforted ourselves all day with the idea that he’s almost still a Kitten, and he’s so friendly, dammit, that somebody will want him, and take him home, and love him and be loved back. We refused to discuss any other fate that might befall him. No other fate will befall him.

Right?

Random Song for the Day: “Get the Cool Shoe Shine” – Gorillaz

7 Replies to “The Work Cat”

  1. Well, damn. Didn’t see that coming. It’s okay, though, because I watch Animal Cops on Animal Planet, so I know that all animals who go to the humane society are adopted by lonesome old couples and sweet little boys, and they all live happily ever after.

    Les Says: And he WILL live happily ever after. He MUST.

    Gawd, I wanna go back there tomorrow and pick him up. STOP ME.

  2. Oh yes, the little kitty will be fine. Someone will want the sweet kitty! I kind of always wanted a store so I could have a store cat. But then I remembered that I don’t like cats and I have nothing to sell.

    Les Says: Have you considered selling cats?

  3. WAIT! STOP! I have a little boy for The Cat! The cat I got talked into taking home from work didn’t like either of us, and made a beeline for parts unknown thirteen and a half seconds after being christened by Max as Lucy and let out of the carrier. We’ve talked about getting another one, always with the disclaimer that The Cat has to not be crazy like Lucy. Dern. I will have to go to the Humane Society this week. This. Week.

    Les Says: Calm. Down.

    Drive directly to Sault Ste. Marie. Adopt MY Cat. Betch.

  4. And shall I bring the care package? So far, it’s choco cherries, cookies, quart o soup, cheese and beer. Abita Beer, that is. A local festive brew. Goes down good with cheese.

    Les Says:
    Augh! There you go again with the making me hungry! Yes, of course, please bring the care package. Then we will shop for groceries, so that you can “teach” me to cook, which means I will nod and pretend to pay attention while you make my supper. 😀

  5. I’m assuming Elle’s care package is for Les and NOT for the cat? Cuz if it’s for the cat, forget the cat and adopt me!

    Les Says: It had better be for me! I’ll adopt you, though, Regina – between the two of us we should be able to pull in a lot more care packages.

  6. As Suzi so aptly stated “Well, damn. Didn’t see that coming.”

    I thought you were going to end it sort of like how you ended another post that described Ruby’s mother. And the kittens.

    Minus.

    Her.

    Forearms.

    Les Says: I hope to get that story up tonight. Fingers crossed that the Nanny Machine doesn’t need its batteries changed – that may require some heretofore alien thing called “allowance”. I’m going to have to study up on “allowance”.

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