I am a dog person. I am not a cat person. There can only be one disinterested party in a relationship and I prefer that it be me. Besides, dogs will let you dress them in goofy clothes, cats would never stand for it.
There is a cat that lives at my office.I know that sounds strange, particularly strange, if you know anything about Mr. Fussy Pants, my O.C.D., A.D.D., pain in the A.S.S. boss. Fussy is allergic to cats. He also believes that cats are filthy, disgusting creatures that make messes and carry disease (Not at all unlike the way he feels about birds, and children under the age of six).
Shirley the cat moved in five years ago. She does the job we pay her for. She is cute. She is charming. She is, for the most part, tolerant. Clients love Shirley. She has never scratched anyone (Except Mr. Fussy Pants, but that is another story).
Col. O was in my office Saturday to refinance his house. The Col. is retired military. Tough guy. High and tight crew cut. Shiny shoes . The whole business. It was just the two of us, me and Col. O. Mr. Fussy pants was on his way to the office. It was Saturday morning: no rush.
I looked up from my computer screen to ask Col. O what the hell 28, aught 7, 54 had to do with his date of birth, when I saw Shirley sauntering down the hallway clutching a mouse between her smiling cat lips... Crap. This was not the job she was hired for. I could tell by the smug look on her face she was coming to deliver a gift....
I am not an "EEEK A MOUSE!!!" kind of girl. On the other hand, disposing of cat saliva soaked vermin first thing Saturday morning didn't hold much appeal either. I intercepted the great white hunter in the hallway and using my most powerful pet psychic skills, willed her to take a left turn into the adjacent office, after which I promptly closed the door behind her. Col. O was none the wiser.
When Fussy arrived I advised him that there was a dead rodent in need of removal in office number two. This would have normally been a task assigned to me, but since I had a client, Fussy was the man for the job.
After arming himself with rubber gloves, a can of Lysol, a spatula, a roll of paper towels, and a large cardboard box. Mr. Pants entered office number two. After several seconds he was back to report that the mouse was very much alive "just sitting there"-- Sorry, he couldn't help.
There were two problems with this. First, in my opinion, it is not a good idea to announce in front of clients that our place of business is infested with mice. Second, He is the boy! Get rid of the Damn mouse!
Before I could finish taking off my left shoe to go whack it, the mouse ran from under the office door, between Fussy's legs, across Col. O's shiny shoes and behind my trashcan.
Mr. Fussy pants and Col. O squealed like girls.
I finished taking off my left shoe...
Never hire a girly man to do a cat's job.