What cat? We don’t know what you’re talking about.
The Sisters have a tale of woe. Before I get in too deep, I want to tell you that it all ends well, but there was a very dark time when we were quite concerned that the end would be dark indeed.
You all know about Joseph T. Kittywiggles, Esq. He is our office kitty. He lives at my house after My Honey found him in our boat when he was only about 4 1/2 weeks old. He was an orange ball of angry for about two hours and then he decided he loved me as much as I loved him and he was ruined as a vicious stray ever since. He’s been coming to work with me at Bank of No Forks everyday since. The Aunties in the office adore him. He’s often the only thing that keeps us sane. What we do for the bank is very stressful and everything they say about having a pet in the workplace is true. After a particularly bad customer conversation, there is nothing better than rubbing a kitty belly. Honest to Zeus.
So when when all the tenants got a letter from the property management forbidding pets in the building, we were crushed. C.R.U.S.H.E.D.
The man who runs our building stopped by the first Joe-Free day to make sure we weren’t angry. That’s when we got the whole story. No one was really concerned with our little cat, but there had been issues because the people in the office next door had been bringing in their dog – a German Shepard named Duchess. She’s a very sweet dog and I would often stop in and give her a snuggle, but they were really pushing the envelope with a big dog in there. When the Management told them they couldn’t have the dog, the bastards narked us out. They literally pointed at our office and said, “They have a cat!” so it had to be acknowledged.
Who does that? People who want to get their ass kicked in the parking lot, that’s who.
Ava asked the landlord if we had a letter from the ADA could we keep the cat? Ava pointed to me in my office and whispered that I was very unstable and needed the cat for psychological reasons. He said if we had a letter he’d be happy to present that to the owners and see what happened. I was instructed to twitch if I saw him in the lobby. I don’t know why I always have to act like the crazy one.
Immediately, Ava got on the internet to find out what the rules are for the American Disabilities Act and service/support animals. We decided that was our solution. We needed to get Joe designated as a service animal. And we needed a prescription for him.
This seemed super easy at the onset. We got the verbiage needed for the letter and we set out to find ourselves a doctor.
Easier said then done. My doctor rolled her eyes at me. Ava’s doctor accused her of using him for Retin A and bullshit and declined to acquiesce. We started to fret. I called my mom to see if any of her docs would do it and she said, “Amy, most people don’t get to take their cat to work.” You understand that I don’t care about those people and their lack of cat. I’m only worried about mine. So she was out. All of the security guards scoffed at our troubles and assured us they could take care of it. NOPE. None of their leads panned out either.
We couldn’t understand it. For crying out loud we weren’t asking for a prescription for morphine. All we wanted was a freaking CAT.
My Honey suggested we find a Pot Doctor and as him to substitute “cat” for “pot”. Brilliant. Our state just voted in medical marijuana so this should be a breeze. Nope. I couldn’t find a pot doctor at all.
One guard spent a tour in Iraq and was fairly certain he could get a PTSD letter from the VA, but we still haven’t seen it.
It had been a month with no cat and we were beginning to despair. Sassy sent me to work with a funky unicorn as a substitute. We named it Leslie and tried petting it like we did Joe, but it didn’t purr and we realized that this was proof that we really and truly are insane.
We found a place on line we could pay $150.00 for a letter and we were afraid that was what we were going to have to do.
Then, completely out of the blue, my mom says, “I can write that letter from you.” She’s a certified counselor and she has like fifteen letters after the R.N. in her name. I have no idea why she waited a month. Torture? Possibly. She did write a hell of a letter – sounded completely official. Technically it was official since she wrote it in an official capacity.
We held our breath and gave it to the manager. It took them a week to decide, but we finally got our cat back. We have to be discreet – which isn’t a problem since we’re no longer speaking with our neighbors.
THE CAT IS BACK!