The office Patsy

Boy, oh boy, are we fond of cliches in our society. I don’t know if it’s because we’ve heard them so many times, but we use a lot of them without really giving much thought to where they came from or what they mean. I am, however, beginning to learn a thing or two about how “curiosity killed the cat” since the office Patsy moved in.

The day after Thanksgiving, we found a kitten trying to get into the trash outside our office. Margo and I fed her and took her to Wanderers’ Rest Humane Association. When she hadn’t been adopted after a couple of weeks, we went back and gave them a lot (for us) of cash to get her back.

Patsy, so named by our boss when he found out we were listening to Patsy Cline when we found her, seemed to be sick forever, and she slept most of the day. After several trips to the vet and four or so prescriptions, Patsy is fit as a fiddle and rarin’ to go. She is perfectly suited for the business, it turns out. She loves coffee (but we don’t let her have any), she loves newspapers, and she can’t keep her nose out of anyone’s business. She runs up to meet us at the door every morning…well, more like every time we come in. Even if it was only 10 minutes since you left, she insists you follow her to her food dish. Sometimes she’s embarrassed to find it still full and pretends what she really wanted was water, which she demonstrates by heading for the toilet (we don’t let her have that, either).

Then it’s time for play. Patsy doesn’t really care if you’re being chased by an escaped gunman, talking to the president on the telephone, your hair is on fire or you are about to wet your pants, the time is NOW.

Patsy has the annoying habit of running out to greet male visitors and shunning most of the women. She will wait eons for a rear-end to depart a chair (even if there are a half-dozen others available) and leap into it, feigning sleep. She has more toys than most daycare centers. When playtime is over, hunting practice begins. You are the prey.

You can be heading to the bathroom, fax machine or copier and suddenly fund (and feel) a fuzzy lump stuck to some part of your anatomy. A gentleman came into the office one afternoon about three seconds after Patsy Velcroed herself to my head. I looked at him and said the only thing that came to mind:

“As you can see, it’s still so cold, I’m wearing my fur.”

Reprinted courtesy Eagle Newspapers, Syracuse, New York.