As a secret agent cat, I have needs. They aren’t elaborate. They aren’t complicated. Litter box. Kibble. An open door policy with my employer.

As a covert animal handler, Horgan is a good boss. Generous with the bacon. Attentive with the litter box scoop.

My only complaint is about the bathroom.

Me: “You’ve been in there for, like, fifteen seconds already.”

Horgan: “Timber, privacy, please.”

Me: “MRAOW!”

Horgan: “Get your paws out from under the door! Don’t you have documents to translate?”

Me: “Lester’s on the computer.”

Horgan: “What’s he working on?”

Me: “No, he’s ON the computer. Taking a nap.”

Horgan: A deep, profound silence, followed by a prolonged exhalation.

Me: Scratching at the door. “It’s been SIXTY SECONDS, Boss! I can’t stand it!”

Horgan: “The cat flap is open, Timber. Go outside if you can’t hold it.”

Me: “It’s not that.”

Horgan: “What is it?”

Me: More scratching. “The DOOR. It’s…it’s…CLOSED!” SCRATCH SCRATCH SCRATCH.

Horgan: “TIMBER! It’s not too late to have you declawed!”

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