I’m taking a risk with Jasper McBryde. It’s a Thursday, a little after two-thirty and I’m already late for our monthly management call. On the TV in my office the Cubs’ Jorge Soler scores from third on a sacrifice fly.

To some people, appointing Jasper the firm’s chief operating officer comes out of left field. We’re a public relations company. He’s younger than others I should have considered. But it’s my decision and I’m going to be his boss. I’m tired of fishing in the same old gene pool for the same old MBAs. Admittedly, maybe it was putting the cat before the horse.

Earlier I asked two managers for feedback on him. Without question they liked him, not a bad word. Suddenly they get a whiff of why I’m sniffing around and up go the noses. They’re ok with him spending his days scratching away in a cubicle in accounts receivable. But promoting him from a junior non-management role to COO? Had I lost my marbles, one of them asked?

Marbles?

The question surprised me. Depends on what you mean by marbles.

I once had a sizeable collection of marbles. Allies actually. I kept them in a Crown Royal bag, soft purple felt with a gold drawstring. Last time I saw them they were stashed safely under my pillow. That was probably fifty years ago and long before I knew Jasper.

The status of my marbles notwithstanding, the opposition to Jasper, at least ostensibly, is his lack of experience in public relations. That and having no relevant professional education. He’d started a low residency MFA in creative writing (sonnet) up in Canada but quit. Letters of reference? Zippo. Anything at all that qualified him for the job? Probably not.

If we can be honest, the value of conventional qualifications is in most cases highly overrated. And I’m definitely ready for not the usual candidates. But how to step outside the natural order of things for hiring senior executives? Maybe a notice taped to hydro poles around town: sincere exciting PR firm seeks spontaneous COO with a passion for life. Add my cell number in a strip of tear-offs along the bottom and wait for the calls to come in.

Or open the window and yell out anyone not have an MBA want a management position?

I know it’s only one man’s opinion, but I believe it was truly visionary to interview Jasper when no one else would have given him as much as a freeze-dried piece of liver.

I mute the TV and open the call with the partners’ committee. I have to let them know. The Cubs’ third baseman Javier Baez smokes a line drive into the left field seats with Soler on base.

When you see bosses walking around thinking, you naturally assume it’s about something important. I’d been thinking mostly that I’d never taken the road not taken. Never tramped off at night, no mosquito repellent, into the woods filled with outraged grizzlies, saber-toothed cougars and man-eating tarantulas the size of chickens. Chances are the cell reception would be lousy too.

The Dodgers get a third out and run off the field onto a white beach beside blue water. A windsurfer glides into view. A young woman in a wetsuit. She skiffs along the waves on her sailboard, watching me, smiling. She turns into the wind and angles the board so I can see the message on the orange and yellow sail: Get in touch with your inner warrior! Normally, I don’t put much stock in omens or horoscopes.

Another commercial and another beach. A model passes by in a bikini and the camera slinks after her, tracking the steady rhythm of her hips. She has a nose for beer because there it is on a mound of sand: a bucket brimming with bottles, translucent ice the colour of an angel’s wings ringed with bright green wedges of lime sweating beads of juice. She bends to pull at a beer and a wet freckle on her shoulder becomes a trickle, sliding down past her elbow to melt into the gold bracelet at her wrist.

I study the bottle’s long neck as she lifts it to her lips and opens her mouth. Then the camera looks away, suddenly shy, to a sandcastle at the edge of the surf. A sand bucket wall about ten inches high guards two towers. On the tallest, there’s a popsicle stick with a flag that looks like our business cards. There’s writing on it that’s too small to read. I know that if I told you it said Jasper McBryde, COO you’d find that hard to believe.

An update on the COO search is the last item on our agenda. I mention Jasper. You’d think they’d spotted a raccoon up a tree. They bite at each other’s asses in their rush to state the perfectly obvious. I hoist myself onto a comfortable branch and watch the TV. Someone hammers a solo shot over the ivy in left centre and Cubs fans chase the ball. The partners are still at it and I gather in their objections like lazy pop flies.

What will it say about the firm? How do we explain this to clients? How will you manage the client meet‑and‑greet?

Such sweet unimaginative mutts. It’s their instinct to think with one mind.

What if a client is allergic?

I hadn’t thought of that one.

Is this about promoting the boss’ pet?

Apoplectic Artie the little nipper, more a flat-faced Pekingese than someone you’d trust to hold the rope when you climbed over the edge. He’d throw up in his own dish just to get attention.

I wait until they’re done barking up the wrong tree. The Cubs win. I click off the TV.

“Once we announce Jasper, it’ll say we’re a firm that’s innovative, invested in the future, not afraid to think outside the box.”

The litter box you mean!

Artie again. His wheezy laugh. No one laughs with him. I check if we’re still connected and tap up the volume. Squeaky squirming. A cough. Someone’s dog yips.

Time to climb down and wield my moral cudgel lightly. Artie, a one-man protest to save the status quo. But accusing him of discrimination, especially on an employment issue, would be to inflict a career-wounding reprimand from which he might never recover. My response must be carefully calibrated.

Strong but not excessive. Certainly not a jolt from a taser that paralyzes his face and makes him shit on the rug. But definitely more than a mere whack on the nose with a newspaper. Maybe rubbing his face in the wet spot where he’d just peed?

“Litter box, Artie?” I say. “Litter box?” I ease him away from the pack. And then I hit him with it. “Artie, that’s animalism.”

No bark in the little wiener now. I sense this is more ritual than actual hunt because they’ve abandoned him, giving him up to show they’re liberal. My little superficial lamb. C’mere Artie.

Animalism. We know it’s bad but we don’t like having to confront it either. It’s easier to wish it wasn’t there. Like when there’s a squirrel in the grass with flies on it. Even if it’s not your squirrel, you have choices. You can avert your eyes and move on. You can get a shovel and clean it up. Or you can roll in it. No matter what you choose, that’s the mess that’s a dead squirrel. No one wants that shit on their fur.

Too late for Artie. He’d already grabbed it in his teeth, flipped it over his head and onto the table with a greasy smack. I see him with dead squirrel bits stuck to his face. Rallying to him now means the firm’s ok with species‑based discrimination and that simply wouldn’t do because we’re a progressive firm. It’s part of our brand.

But do animalist people deserve to suffer and die? Or be cancelled because they’re too stupid to understand their own human privilege?

Predictably, Artie does the moral outrage thing. The righteous indignation is overdone.

Don’t you dare call me an animalist!

Not surprising given I’d just accused him in front of all the other partners of being an animalist.

I move to cut off his escape.

“What Artie? I suppose you’re going to tell us now that some of your best friends are animals?”

But I do like animals. I even own animals. I have a dog. And somebody who comes by twice a day to take him out!

“Artie” I say firmly, “The bigotry baked into your fragility and privilege as a human does not allow you to deny non-humans the benefits you simply assume you deserve and they don’t.”

“Yes, Jasper is a non-human. Specifically, a cat. And he’s been held back his whole life by animalist perceptions of what he can and cannot do. It seems to me that your animalism is a problem for this firm. If you’re that threatened by animals in positions of power, then maybe you’re at the wrong firm.”

Artie was whimpering now. Maybe licking his fur to calm himself and figure out what to do. I imagined him looking like something the cat dragged in.

“Artie, do you know what animalists say when they see a cat in a leadership position at a major firm?”

I wait a beat.

“Fat cat. Think of what that means and how hurtful that is. Fat cat! Because of our own species privilege as humans, we can never understand how stigmatizing it is for cats to hear such slurs tossed around so casually. And when it happens at work, it’s also probably harassment and maybe even grounds for an animal rights complaint.”

I knew that would make Jacob, our head of HR, prick up his ears. I wanted to stop playing cat and mouse with Artie. Time to wrap it up and signal I was done.

“Because Jasper doesn’t walk on two legs, because he doesn’t look like you or any of the rest of us, is that really why we’re against his appointment to COO?”

Jacob clears his throat. He’s talking to me but really he’s saying it to everyone. He’s not pussyfooting around and the partners get the message.

Of course, this is your decision. If you want this, we’re a hundred percent behind you.

I check my watch. A minute to wrap up. “Thanks Jacob,” I say.

Jacob coughs again. I wonder if he’s got a hairball. Spit it out man.

Sorry, before we go, can I ask? He’s not a tabby is he?

“Of course not. He’s Siamese. A blue-point actually. His uncle was a Russian.”

Jacob messages me that we should talk off-line. I call him later.

Jacob says that Artie was wrong for having said what he did but we still need to go slow.

It takes time to change attitudes. Give the partners a chance to get used to having an animal on the senior team.

I remind him that, technically, we’re all animals.

Fine. But your boy didn’t exactly place top of his litter. Put him on a short leash. Give him the title and the office, a new basket and some toys. Keep the announcement internal for now. The way the partners are feeling, you might want to toss them a bone and let sleeping dogs lie.

I’m not sure I understand what he’s getting at. But I make a mental note to toss a bone at a sleeping dog. Managing partners is worse than herding cats.

Jacob bristles at the profile I’ve put together. Jasper’s never done client-facing work. Jacob’s got his hackles up.

Don’t be throwing him in the deep end without water wings.

I agree. Short leash and water wings. And hit the partners with a bone.

Honestly, I have concerns.

Episode 2: Eating bugs in the boardroom

I go to pet the new COO and congratulate him. I also need to finalize the details of the position before someone lets the cat out of the bag. His social media experience still worries me.

He’s not in his basket. There’s a crash in the boardroom. He must be after a fly. Last week, he got two flies and a moth, cleared the window ledge of the African violets, killed the ficus tree and broke the neck of a floor lamp.

Our conference phone is on the floor. He crouches a few feet away, glaring at it with his paw raised, ready to swat it if it moves.

I close the door. Jasper climbs up on the table. Nineteen pounds of fuzzy grey thunder. There’s something in his mouth. A piece of silvery wing. Not a dragon fly!

“Gimme that.” I reach for his face but he blocks my hand with his paw and licks his lips.

Gone.

I sit down and unzip my portfolio. I’ve got a list of things to discuss. He rolls over on my assessment of his social media skills. Not to worry, few C‑level executives do that themselves anyway. He leans forward and chews on the end of my pen. I move my hand away. He hooks his claws over the edge of my pad and drags it to him. I let him because I assume he wants to see. He pulls it off the edge and gnaws on the corner of the pages.

“Stop,” I say, taking it back and pushing him away. “What about Twitter?”

He turns his face to the window.

“Sorry. X?” Nothing. I draw a line through social media.

“Maybe an occasional blog under your name on the firm’s website?”

He bumps his ear into my hand. I run my fingers across his forehead, scratching the itchy spot where the blue of the ears fades to grey on the top of his head. I resist saying who’s a good boy or he’s a fuzzy wuzzy because it would be inappropriate in the workplace. Jasper closes his eyes and leans against my wrist.

We’re already ghostwriting blogs for some clients. So we’ll just write one more.

“Your email is ready for you,” I tell him. I’d had IT set up an account in his name.

He lifts a back foot and chews at his toes. I take it as a sign to move on.

Short leash, water wings, I write the blog, we’ll do his email together. I make a note to have his email forwarded to me.

I have an offer drawn up and sent to him for review. Later, it’s in my inbox with no changes so we don’t speak of it again. He’s officially the COO.

Episode 3: A year later, stalking clients

I should have coached him about the staring. I suspect he’s doing it on purpose, especially once I begin having him at client meetings.

The thing is, sometimes his eyes are on you and not on you at the same time. Two shimmering marbles as blue as the bluest Colorado sky. Except one points in at a spot on the side of his nose and the other focuses on something over your shoulder.

Inevitably, I have to bring him to his first client meeting. I don’t want to introduce him formally as the new COO until he’s had a chance to get his paws wet.

Just watch and learn, let me do the talking, I tell him. He gives me the thumbs up. For a change, the cat’s got his tongue.

The meeting goes well enough. But even without saying anything he manages to act the idiot. A pigeon lands outside the window and he throws himself at the glass chattering like a mad fool. To be fair, birds on the ledge always drove him nuts. I cluck to get his attention and he’s already climbing back into his chair. I flash him a telepathic order, low profile please. He blinks back and disappears under the table. I feel him rubbing sorry boss against my leg.

I admit that I’m uncomfortable with him trying to stare clients into submission. Privately I tell him they’re clients, not prey animals, for Pete’s sake. At meetings, he’d take a seat and pick someone, always a man, to screw with. Most guys would laugh and say not to worry, it didn’t bother them.

But I know what he’s up to. He lifts his head so he can aim one eye, the one that turns in, at the dude’s nose. He keeps the other eye trained on that thing that’s drifting closer, maybe a disembodied hand or some floating chomping dentures coming up from behind.

I know it’s hard to believe. But for sure it’s a trick he uses to get into your head.

A frozen fuzzy statue, he locks on until the client flinches and almost loses it, jerking away sideways at a lurking nothing. Then Jasper blinks, hops down and leaves the room, his tail twitching stiffly.

Occasionally, telephone calls for Jasper are misdirected to me. Mostly salespeople. They’d have his name from those email lists that promise not to sell your contact info but do. Or you go to a conference and fill out a form for a prize and you give an email address. Whenever we travelled to trade shows together, Jasper and I agreed we’d use his email not mine as I got too much spam. He thought he might like spam.

A typical call for him goes like this.

Hello. This is Some Guy from Acme Super Solutions. I ran into Jasper at the Super X Show in Seattle last week and we exchanged cards. Is he in the office?

Jasper never took calls from people he didn’t know.

“It’s probably best you send him an email. If he’s interested, he’ll get back to you.”

THE END

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Directed by
SpookyB

Screenplay by
SpookyB

Produced by 
SpookyB

Disclaimer

This is a story by SpookyB. It is meant for educational purposes only. Some assembly required. No batteries included. Not recommended for people offended by extraordinarily witty insights into the human and animal and bi-species experiences. No animals were harmed in the writing of this story.

Health warning

If you are reading this in the State of California, you are warned that significant exposure to this story is not known to cause harm to human health. Reading it more than once is not gonna kill you. Unless you read it on your phone and walk into traffic. In the State of California walking into traffic while reading fine literature on your phone has been associated with serious bodily injury and even death.

Based on a true story

Any resemblance to actual animals, bugs, or persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely intentional.

If you are a government official in the State of Florida, yeah, ok, Jasper really was our COO in Chicago. If you are reading this story in a deep red state, wow, yeah, it’s all true. And Chicago is a real place.

Acknowledgments and further disclaimers

This story is produced with the assistance of numerous government agencies that requested they not in any way be publicly associated with the work of SpookyB in exchange for their generous financial support.

The agents and representatives of SpookyB offer no comment on whether Ryan Reynolds or his agents or representatives are in negotiations for the life rights of Jasper McBryde.