“Good morning, ArtsyCatsy, this is Callie, how may I help you ….

… blah, blah, blah.” Yeah, that’s how Mr. fancypants CEO says I have to answer the phone. What a load of catcrap. I’ve got seniority around here, I'm the original Golden Girl, see ... but nnnoo, who gives a hiss about the elderly anymore? They bring in this Rocky cocky fleabag whippersnapper – who I could knock clear into next week if I had a mind to – they make him the boss of me, and I get demoted to Administrative Assistant. What, me type? With these arthritic old claws?

And “CEO, MFA” my geriatric hind end. He ain’t nothin’ but a vagrant they picked up out at the lake where his streetwalkin’ mother left him. He was only a day old, and I watched Mr. Know-It-All get bottle-fed and burped for months by these three rattlebrained artsyfartsy humans we got here. And, you didn’t hear it from me, but Mr. CEO still likes to hit the bottle when there ain’t nobody in his office. He’d better not push me too far with this “take a letter, pick up my dry kibble, get me a cup of Friskies” nonsense or I’ll let all his nasty little secrets out of the bag.

“I’m happy to have been of service, thank you for calling, have a wonderful day…” Oh, my aching psoriatic haunches, this job will be the death of my ninth life!