Danny had officially been a part-time Assistant Cat Manager for four days and had already:
Been scratched on the neck by a sphynx cat named Zucchini
Accidentally meditated into a nap in the aromatherapy room
Walked in on a woman trying to "align her aura" with a laser pointer
He'd also made $93 and one free bottle of rose-scented paw balm.
Progress?
Sure. Let's go with that.
Today, Devin pulled him aside and said, "You've got a special energy. The cats trust you. Especially Chairman Meow."
"Chairman what now?"
Devin pointed to the Bengal lounging on a silk cushion like royalty. Golden coat. Emerald eyes. Aura of pure judgment.
"She belongs to a regular named Sabine. Energy consultant. She's going to Marfa for a silent retreat and needs someone to cat-sit. I told her you're... between projects."
That was a generous way of saying "technically unemployed."
"How much does it pay?" Danny asked.
"Two hundred bucks. Plus snacks."
"I'm in."
Sabine lived in one of those glass-and-wood houses that looked like an Apple Store and a yurt had a baby. It was in East Austin, tucked between a vegan butcher shop and a bike repair café.
Danny showed up in his second-cleanest shirt and knocked.
The door opened. Sabine was forty-something, barefoot, and wearing what looked like a silk jumpsuit made from recycled tarot cards. She radiated calm and caffeine.
"You must be the cat empath," she said.
Danny considered correcting her. Then thought better of it.
"Yep. That's me."
She led him in. Everything inside was beige. Beige couch. Beige walls. Beige crystal altar. It smelled like lemon, sage, and upper-middle-class guilt.
Chairman Meow sat on a plush window perch, glaring like a dictator awaiting tribute.
Sabine handed Danny a binder labeled:
> "CHAIRMAN MEOW'S RHYTHM & NEEDS (updated for moon cycle)"
"Feeding times are on page two. His litter is artisanal. Please no tap water—only alkaline or Icelandic glacial. He watches calming YouTube bird videos from 6:00 to 7:00 p.m."
Danny blinked. "Is that... negotiable?"
"No."
Then she handed him a mini fridge full of pre-labeled jars.
"These are his hydration smoothies. They're cucumber-kale-bone broth infusions. He likes them room temp."
"Uh-huh."
Sabine exhaled deeply. "If he poops twice in a row, text me. That means he's processing trauma."
"Of course."
By 6:30 p.m., Danny was sitting cross-legged in a $3,000 chair watching pigeon videos on a flatscreen while the Chairman stared in regal silence.
Danny sipped one of the cat's smoothies out of curiosity.
It tasted like expensive lawn.
He cracked open his notebook and scribbled:
> Scene idea: struggling artist hired to babysit psycho-rich cat, ends up learning about himself through forced routine, cucumber water, and weird luxury silence.
Then he added:
> Working title: "Fur, Interrupted"
Chairman Meow blinked at him. Judging. Always judging.
"You don't think it's good?"
Meow.
The next morning, Danny woke to the sound of smooth jazz and saw the cat calmly sitting on his chest.
His phone buzzed.
[Devin]: Emergency. Mango ate a crystal. We might need backup.
Danny sent back: Can't. In cat lockdown.
He got up, fed Chairman his bespoke oat-kibble fusion, opened the blinds, and played his bird videos. The cat purred. Or maybe vibrated with low-level disdain.
He cleaned the litter box (pine-based, biodegradable), misted the cat with rosewater (???), and finally sat on the terrace with a cucumber water of his own.
Something about the calm felt fake. Too curated. Too beige.
But another part of him? Wanted to stay. Just for a bit. Just to feel... sorted.
That afternoon, a knock on the door interrupted his zen.
He opened it to find a delivery guy holding a designer duffel bag and a box labeled "Sabine's Emergency Retreat Rations."
Before Danny could ask questions, the guy leaned in and said, "You're the cat guy, right?"
Danny paused. "...Yes?"
The guy grinned. "Cool. We've all heard of the Chairman. Hope you survive."
Then he left.
At exactly 4:17 p.m., Chairman Meow threw up on the beige carpet.
Danny Googled "emergency cat vomit spiritual meaning."
Nothing helpful.
He called Sabine.
She answered mid-gong sound. "Is it red or yellow?"
"Uh… kind of beige?"
"Ah. Over-stimulated by pigeon loop. Dim the lights. Give him one of the bone broth shots. Whisper forgiveness."
"Forgiveness for who?"
"You'll know."
She hung up.
Danny stared at the cat.
Chairman Meow blinked. Slowly.
"I forgive you," Danny muttered, cracking open a bone broth tube like a communion wafer.
The cat drank it. Immediately fell asleep.
Danny sat down next to him, exhaled, and whispered, "Same."
That night, he opened his laptop and wrote a scene where a broken guy is forced to be still. To care. To observe. And somehow, that cracks something open.
He titled it:
> "Chairman"
For the first time in weeks, the words came easy.