I’m an animal lover myself and as I look around the office, I can’t help but think of my co-workers… as dogs. If I was a dog, which I’m not, I’d probably be seen as a poodle due to my tight curly hair.
Firstly, there’s Trevor who sits in the corner. He’s small like a Dachshund, neatly packaged! He works on the financial side of things. He likes his books to balance right down to the last penny. If it doesn’t tally he goes back to the beginning and starts all over again checking and double checking. I’m told he never gives up. I admire that in someone.
Then there’s Chantel who reminds me of an Afghan hound. She has long, streaked hair that’s yellow, auburn, and brown. To be perfectly honest, it’s a bit of a mess. She’s tall and big boned. Some might say elegant. She’s definitely not sleek like a greyhound. She’s friendly but scatty.
I haven’t had much need to deal with Chas. He’s very English, posh accent, polite but I can’t tell if it’s all a show. Is he trying to be something he’s not? To look at him, he makes me think of a Fox Terrier. He’s a short man with a square beard. I can almost imagine him with a little wet nose. I like his gentlemanly manners and he’s popular.
As soon as I saw Doug, I said to myself, he’s a Pug. He’s squat, small, solid and not what you’d call handsome. I’m not sure how old he is, but there are signs of wrinkles. He’s a Rep and in my opinion, he spends far too much time sitting. He did bring buy us all muffins to have with our afternoon cuppa. I was touched he included me: I’m only a temp after all. My aunt had a Pug called Dexter, and I loved him.
Now Sammy is the complete opposite. She’s the office junior and looks about twelve but told me she’s nineteen. I get exhausted just watching her. She almost runs around the building collecting this, dropping off that, moving gracefully. She does have a desk but hardly ever sits down. I wish I had such energy. I thought she might refuse Doug’s muffin but she woofed it down. Sammy’s the whippet.
Everyone’s been pleasant, but something’s niggling at me.
Finally, there’s the boss. He’s a Great Dane and no mistake. The other men are slight, but Mr Townsend’s huge. He has to duck down to get through the doors and has to turn slightly sideways because he’s all muscle. I was relieved he didn’t offer to shake my hand, I’m sure he’d have crushed some bones.
I’ve only heard him speak once when he bellowed at Sammy to run and fetch him a coffee. She says he’s a gentle giant but I’ve yet to be convinced. I watched as he left his office on his way to a meeting. He stepped on a paper cup that had been knocked off a tray. He flattened it and didn’t even notice what he’d done. I wonder if he’s aware of his own strength? I certainly wouldn’t like to be on the wrong side of him, despite what Sammy says in his defence.
I’m home in good time which is great, especially this week as my neighbour’s on holiday and I’ve promised to feed her cat and give the poor thing a bit of attention while she’s away.
Willow is waiting for me as I come up the road. She bounds over to say hello and winds herself around my legs as I search for the front door key. I abandon my bag in the hallway, grab next door’s key and let her in. She ignores the cat flap and follows me. She isn’t hungry except for attention. It’s my pleasure to make a fuss of her. Willow’s a tabby with the softest fur. Within moments she’s on my lap, getting comfortable.
Having stroked her for a few minutes and told her about my day, she begins to purr. I’ve promised myself I’ll get a cat once I’ve got a stable job. I make my decision. I’ll finish my temporary contract as agreed, but won’t be looking for a permanent contract with this particular company.
I’ll continue as a temp. It enables me to suss out the staff, the job, and the benefits, before I commit. You see I can’t very well put on my application form that I’d prefer to work with ‘cat people’ now can I? Even when I had a Saturday job at the cattery the owner kept a dog rather than a cat! So you can never be sure.
It looks like Willow and I are settled for the evening. I’m sure my neighbour won’t mind if I stay a while longer to keep Willow happy.
‘Thank you,’ I say as I stroke her. ‘I should have realised that actually I was a cat person all along.’
About the author
Sarah Swatridge writes short stories for women’s magazines worldwide. She now has a collection of twenty uplifting short stories called Feel-Good Stories along with her large print novels available in libraries and online. Visit www.sarahswatridge.co.uk and sign up to her monthly one page newsletter.
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