I knew it was time to start looking for a new job after I killed my boss’s cat. Allegedly.
I had been working at a non-profit organization for three years directly after graduating from a liberal arts institution in New England. I was in the special events department, working crazy hours and making crazy money. Not in direct proportion to each other. Crazy hours= long, enough to stunt social life. Crazy money= No social life? Good, you can’t afford one!
The 18 year old diabetic feline was left in my care over a long weekend while its owners, my boss and her husband, went to visit some old money friends on their remote private island off the coast of Maine.
I had gotten the initial inquiry call from my boss Valerie at my parent’s home in New Jersey. As a post-graduate working at a non-profit and living on the Upper East Side, the lure of a week’s worth of free meals and a car at my disposal seemed like a luxury all paid expenses trip to the Caribbean. Plus, like I said, I had use of the car. And free food. You live on $1600 a month in New York City and see what tickles your fancy. At that particular time in my life, the term “vacation” was HR policy at its best- it was merely “paid time off”. The time off is a prize within itself- you don’t have to go to that awful job you hate, but the awful job will still pay you that week. Who needs beach and sun?
I had gotten the idea of taking some time off after a particularly nasty breakup with a boyfriend who had no job and lived with his mother, despite being two years older than I. It was heartwrenching. Clearly, I was in need of time off. My ego alone needed two weeks. I got one. In New Jersey. At my house. Where my parents still lived.
As my “vacation” was zipping along, I got a call on my mobile from my boss. Never a good sign.
“Hi Valerie! Is everything ok?”
“Hi Gargamel. How is your vacation goinggggggg?”
Valerie had a very affected way of speaking. “Grew up on Long Island in Skanksville? Pretend you are upper crust old money from Connecticut, get engaged a few times and then snag a younger eligible bachelor with a well known family name! Isn’t it wiiiiiillllllld?????? I can’t staaaaaaaand it!!!!”
“Um, good. Thanks. Is everything ok?”
“How would you like to babysit your favorite furry niece?!”
I had, at that point, four nieces, none of whom I would ever describe as “furry”.
“Erm…..”
“Katie!!!”
But of course her 18 year old diabetic cat was named Katie. Here is where I mention it is my humble opinion that people should not ever name their pets “people names”. It gets too confusing. And awkward.
Turns out, Valerie needed me to “just pop in on Saturday and maybe Sunday to check in on “Katie”. Otherwise, the vet tech would be stopping in to administer assistance. I had my hesitations, given my last encounter Katie, when my co-worker volunteered (for pay!) to assist with the caretaking one weekend, and was thusly taught how to insert an inappropriately large IV into the cat to assist with her diabetes (see aforementioned vet tech).
I am not good with Cats. Cats scare me. (Even my dear Azriel). And because they are inherently evil ninjas, they feed on this knowledge to concoct newfangled methods with which to torture me. However, where normal healthy cats scare me, geriatric diabetic cats scare me even more. No matter to Valerie. I was available slave labor, and in no position to decline her generous offer. Read: I had nothing better to do. Vacation? What vacation?!
So without my choice in the matter, I cut my sunny, relaxing vacation in exotic Nueva Jersey short and returned to Manhattan. I sneakily recruited my roommate who loved cats and was familiar with their enigmatic ways by promising a shopping excursion at the Bloomies afterward. And so, on a fitting Dickens-approved dark, rainy day, we made our way from our East 75th Street walkup to the East 61st Street townhome at which my boss resided.
After pushing my ogling roommate along (“Someone in his family is distantly related to the Romanovs..I don’t remember how”), we finally made it up to the 3rd floor(!) of the townhouse, all the while calling the cat’s name (only ever owning dogs, it seemed reasonable. Understanding that cats are evil ninjas, it didn’t shock me that this animal would not come scurrying out to greet me. I expected perhaps her jumping on my head from above and clawing at my eyes).
Instead, I was greeted by the realization that my “career” in event planning was over. Well, not quite, but I did find the cat in an odd position- quite clearly dead or quite close to it in a comatose state. Obviously, I began to run around the top floor screaming my roommate’s name as well as the ladylike turn of phrase “HOLY SHIT!!!! IT’S DEAD!!!!”
Well, I apparently missed my calling as a cat whisperer, because my clear concern for its health revived it to life. I felt like I was in a Steven King novel. Not entertaining.
The sluggish and clearly dying cat moved from its spot at the entry to my boss’s bedroom and made its way under her dresser (how thoughtful of her to not kick it on the $20,000 rug). Based on my general knowledge of the animal kingdom and death, Katie was making it clear I had better come to terms with her death, because it was happening whether I interrupted it or not. She made her way under the dresser to be alone.
With my cell phone in hand, I frantically dialed my boss’s cell, her husband’s cell and when those wouldn’t go through, got the number for the friend’s house and called there. Interrupting best laid plans all over the Eastern Sea Board, my boss came to the phone and listened as I told her I was quite sure her cat was on her last legs, all the while trying to grab the cat from under the dresser and keep her in my view. Knowing my boss as I had, I am not totally sure why her response still shocked me.
“Oh, she just gets depressed when we go away”
As she tells me her cat suffers from what they would call “melancholy” in the early 20th century (she’s female, but of course!!), the cat began to wretch, spewing fluorescent green bile onto the floor. Thank God not the rug. I related this new alarming news to my boss.
“Oh, well why didn’t you tell me! Her stomach is just upset. In my bathroom, I have a quarter tablet of a Pepcid-AC. Give that to her.”
My roommate watched in confusion as I ran into the bathroom on the phone asking on what side of the vanity I might find the Pepcid-AC. After administering the tablet, Katie chippered up a bit. I brought her some water, which she hungrily attached. I told my boss I did not feel comfortable leaving the cat alone, and was her vet tech planning to stop by to administer the IV?
She said she hadn’t been able to reach her tech, but she would call again. Otherwise, if she couldn’t get in touch with the tech, would I mind stopping by again around 6pm that evening and checking in on Katie again? I told her to call me if she needed me to come by.
As we left the townhouse, I slipped and fell down the spiral metal staircase from the front door leading to the sidewalk, hitting my head and slipping straight down onto the wet sidewalk, one leg going through each side of the metal gate, leaving me splayed out as if I was at my gynecologist’s. I figured at that point, what else could go wrong?
I called Valerie again that night around 6pm, just to check if they needed me to stop by. I left a voicemail asking them to call me if they needed me to stop in again. I heard not a word for the rest of the weekend.
I was working at my desk when the phone rang Monday morning at the office. It being 10am, we were shocked to see Valerie’s home line on the screen. It was abnormally early for her to be up, let alone making contact with the office. My co-worker, Amanda, answered the phone.
“Hi Valerie!! How was Maine!?”
“Oh GOD! I am so sorry!! Are you okay!??! Was she sick?”
Cue to me: my normally icky pallor has turned a new shade of “icky”.
“Psst! What is she saying!!?!?! Is the cat dead?!!?”
Valerie arrived about two hours later, in full mourning dress. Chanel glasses, black skirt suit and black suede boots. She walked directly into her office, located next to ours. About ten minutes later, my phone rang.
“Would you come in here please?”
I entered her office, offering my condolences.
“ I knew how much she meant to you”
Valerie did not take off her sunglasses, but I could tell she was fixing me a steely look.
“I need you to tell me exactly what happened that day”
“Umm, well, what do you mean? I was on the phone with you the entire time. I left right after we got off the phone. Did the tech not come that night? I left you a voicemail.”
“The tech had some family emergency!” And then she slipped into full out sobbing, and because I find crying extremely awkward, I excused myself.
Her guilt had gotten the better of her. I subsequently discovered that she did in fact suspect that I had killed her cat or had at least sped up the process. The veterinarian she had befriended on some chat board had managed to convince her that despite all of my magic spells (to make gold! Not to kill cats!) and voodoo hoaxes, all of the IVs and medicines meant that her 18 year old cat while not merely being friggin’ OLD, was also fatally diabetic. Valerie finally admitted that it was in fact her Catholic guilt that had left her looking for answers. She could not bring herself to think that “her only family” was alone when she died. Score one for me: the vet insisted that animals prefer to be alone when they are dying so as not to make it harder for the owner. Never mind the owner’s lowly office worker. That’s just fine.
Regardless of my animal planet knowledge of animal death, the slight upward movement I had made in the office was quickly ruined. It was time to start looking for a job.
