Cats (feline) are not the only cats (hep) to have moved in our recent mass of motion.

We have been hustling humans all about the sanctuary, too.

Technically, the lesser species was the motivation for all the moves in the first place. As you know, the creaky old Community Room had grown too cramped and crazed for the full community of staff + cats, so we dreamed up the daft delightful idea of turning the Adoption Rooms into offices.

And the Weight Management Suite into the Shy Room.
And the Special Needs Suite into the Kitten Room.
And the Community Room into a Better Community Room.
Etcetera, etcetera, ad infinitum, world without end, amen.

Among the hapless humans to find themselves in new digs was one Development Director, yours truly. When the idea of these offices was first proposed, my statements were two:

1. EEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeee yes space desk worky more better yesssss!
2. NOT WITHOUT MY DAUGHTER.

The vision was that the offices nee Adoption Rooms would be perfect for cats on special diets. “My” office-to-be would be the destination for cats on that FLUTD-fightin’ urinary health diet.
My indispensable, irresistible, utterly essential office mate supervisor Bucca, however, is not on any such special diet.

And so it happened that I stamped my feet, dribbled my defenses, and earned one Bucca Rosenberg a place in the Urinary Office.

This is all well and good with Her Buccatude, given the lobby window (THERE BE PEOPLE THERE!) and the 800′ tall cabinet (I CAN SCALE THAT FROM THE FLOOR!) and the perpetual proximity to my person (ALL YOUR ANGELA ARE BELONG TO ME!)

This is less well and good with Her Nibs, given the presence of Other Cats.
Granted, there are (far, far) fewer of them than in the Community Room.
Granted, they are two feeble old men who just want to lick themselves and eat into oblivion.

Nevertheless, Angelo (name irony duly noted) and Louie have the following marks against them:

1. They exist.
2. They are alive.
3. They make sounds, emit vapors, and occasionally move.

It’s all a Bucca can do not to commit random acts of murder.

Fortunately, Angelo, 400-some pounds of snow white wiry fluff, is not miffed when Bucca gets brassy. (“Brassy” = hissing in faces, ears like pointy pancakes, thin stream of spittle shooting Angelo-ward.) Angelo has exactly three hobbies, and he’s perfectly able to enjoy them whilst working around Bucca: rolling on the floor, eating mass quantities of food, and beaching upon the shore like the walrus he is.

Then there’s Louie, sixteen years of trembly tabby sweetness. This gentle, orb-eyed old man is currently still in a crate, and that’s ducky as far as he’s concerned. All the better to (a) avoid Bucca and (b) entice humans to crawl like Navy seals into his crate to mush and smush him. Nervous, nuzzlable and 100% stitched of love, Louie Louie needs our patience and our kisses and our cooing gooey goodness. He’s got it all. He’s also got Bucca the Conquering Queen yet to fully meet, and she doesn’t take kindly to pretenders to the throne.

But in all truth, the trio is doing quite well. It’s tough stuff learning to live with someone new, much less two someones, and all three cats are eating up the ample time spent in my arms and advising me on matters of fundraising and assorted frippery.

It’s a wonderful office.

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