The Cats of 9th Avenue
The office was a typical, open-space setup, with long rows of desks and the gentle hum of computers and quiet conversations. It was a place where work met the mundane, where every employee had their specific tasks and routines. But there was one thing that made this workplace stand out—two very special, very furry residents: Jean and Jorts.
Jean was a tortoiseshell cat with a striking blend of orange, black, and brown fur. She was lean and graceful, her sharp eyes always watching, observing, calculating the smallest movements of her fellow office mates. She had been with the office for years, having first wandered in as a stray looking for food and warmth. The employees, always animal lovers, had adopted her immediately. Over time, Jean had become a fixture, an unofficial mascot of the office. She roamed freely from desk to desk, occasionally curling up on someone’s lap for a nap or gracefully prancing across the meeting tables during presentations.
Jorts, on the other hand, was the office’s newest addition. An orange tabby with a bit of a bumbling, lovable nature, Jorts had come into the workplace just a few months prior. Unlike Jean, who had mastered the art of office life, Jorts was a bit slow on the uptake. He was a bit of a mess, constantly getting into awkward situations—like when he would try to leap onto a desk, only to miss and tumble into a filing cabinet. Or when he would shove at doors to get through, only to find himself trapped inside, meowing for help.
While Jean excelled at her role as the “office cat,” offering subtle comfort and an air of grace, Jorts was an embodiment of chaos. His clumsy nature created a constant source of amusement for the team, especially for Pam.
Pam was a colleague who had taken it upon herself to “fix” Jorts. She had big plans for him, imagining that one day, Jorts would be able to live up to the grace and charm that Jean exuded so effortlessly. She started small: teaching him how to open doors, a skill that Jean had perfected. Pam believed that if she could help Jorts master this simple task, it would be a giant leap for the orange tabby’s development. And maybe, just maybe, she could transform him from the lovable but slightly inept cat into an office hero.
But there was one problem—Jorts just wasn’t that type of cat. He lacked the intelligence to comprehend the tasks Pam was assigning to him. He could push at doors all day, but he could never figure out how to open them. His inability to make progress on what Pam considered simple lessons only fueled her determination. She would set up little “training exercises” for him, much to the amusement of her coworkers, who couldn’t help but laugh when Jorts would simply get stuck or wander off to find a corner to nap in.
Despite the overwhelming evidence that Jorts wasn’t likely to win any intelligence awards, Pam persisted. She spent hours trying to teach him, while Jean looked on with mild amusement, content to let Jorts stumble through his training. Jean had already mastered the art of doors, she didn’t need any more lessons. Pam, however, was not so easily deterred. She even began writing down Jorts’ “lessons” on the office whiteboard, hoping that if she could make it a shared activity, others might chip in to help teach the orange tabby.
It wasn’t long before Pam’s obsession with Jorts’ “development” started to rub some of her coworkers the wrong way. Most found it endearing at first, but as Pam became more intense in her efforts, it began to feel a bit forced. After all, not everyone in the office shared Pam’s belief that Jorts could be “fixed.” For some, Jorts was perfect the way he was—clumsy, endearing, and a little dumb. They didn’t need him to become an office prodigy. But Pam, undeterred by the skepticism around her, continued to create lesson plans, even setting up a schedule where she and anyone who wanted to help could work on “Jorts’ progress.”
At first, the other employees just went along with it. A few would laugh at Jorts’ antics or engage with Pam’s lessons for a few minutes. But when Pam began setting up her lessons on the whiteboard—right next to actual office tasks like “client reports” and “meeting prep”—things started to get awkward. People began to feel like their work was being disrupted by Pam’s ongoing quest to teach Jorts the simplest of tasks.
It was during one of these sessions that I, the office manager, began to notice the growing tension. I’d been with the company long enough to know that people loved having the cats around, but I also knew when things started to cross the line. One afternoon, Pam wrote a task on the whiteboard that caught my attention: “Teach Jorts to open doors and fetch the coffee cup.” It seemed harmless enough, but when I looked over to the other employees, I noticed a few raised eyebrows and uncomfortable glances.
Jean, meanwhile, was content to simply watch the proceedings from her perch atop a filing cabinet. She didn’t care about Pam’s efforts; she’d already figured out how to open doors and fetch coffee cups, thank you very much.
I decided it was time for a conversation. I’d always prided myself on managing office dynamics well, so I walked over to Pam’s desk and asked her if we could chat for a moment.
“Pam,” I began, choosing my words carefully, “I know you love Jorts and want to help him, but I’m starting to think that maybe we’re losing sight of what makes this office great.”
Pam blinked in confusion. “What do you mean?” she asked.
“Well, it’s just that, I’ve noticed the lessons and the tasks you’ve set up for Jorts… It’s starting to feel a little forced, and it’s beginning to disrupt the flow of work. People are starting to notice, and not everyone is as invested in teaching Jorts to fetch coffee cups or open doors as you are.”
Pam’s face flushed slightly, and she crossed her arms defensively. “But he’s a part of the team! I think we should all be involved in his growth. He deserves the chance to learn.”
“I agree that Jorts deserves to be treated well, but maybe we’re expecting a little too much from him,” I replied gently. “He’s a cat, Pam. He’s probably not going to be opening doors or fetching coffee cups anytime soon.”
Pam’s eyes widened, and her posture stiffened. “You don’t get it, do you?” she asked, her voice tinged with frustration. “This is about more than just teaching him tasks. It’s about helping him be the best version of himself!”
I sighed. “Pam, he’s a cat. And I think sometimes, we need to just let him be Jorts. He’s good at being who he is—clumsy, silly, and lovable. Maybe we need to stop trying to change him and just enjoy the joy he brings to the office.”
Pam didn’t respond. She just stared at me, a faint frown on her face.
I walked back to my desk, feeling a mixture of concern and uncertainty. This wasn’t the first time Pam’s passion had begun to border on obsession. And while her intentions were good, I could tell that her fixation on “helping” Jorts was starting to alienate others. As I sat back down, I made a mental note to check in with the team and get their thoughts. After all, the last thing we needed was to create any more friction in an already tense office environment.
Little did I know, Pam wasn’t about to give up so easily. And this innocent attempt at teaching Jorts how to open a door would soon spiral into a workplace issue no one could have anticipated.
The Door Incident
It started as just another day at the office, quiet and routine. The morning coffee machine gurgled as it brewed, the keyboard taps and quiet murmurs of coworkers filling the space. The office cats, Jean and Jorts, had already made their rounds, checking in on everyone before settling into their usual spots. Jean perched atop a filing cabinet, surveying her kingdom with sharp, watchful eyes, while Jorts, as always, was somewhere else entirely—probably trapped behind a door or knocking something off a desk.
Pam, however, had a new plan for the day.
“Okay, Jorts!” Pam announced as she walked into the breakroom, a large whiteboard marker in hand. The whiteboard was already filled with tasks for the day—things like “complete client reports” and “follow up on team emails.” But at the very bottom, in bright red letters, was a new entry:
“Teach Jorts how to open the supply closet door—again.”
Pam had been relentless in her quest to teach Jorts this particular skill, as if this simple task was the key to unlocking the cat’s full potential. It had become a running joke among the team, but Pam took it very seriously. She’d even created little reward charts for Jorts, complete with pictures of treats and encouraging notes. Each time he succeeded, however small, she would celebrate it like a major achievement, as though he’d just solved a complex math problem.
But the problem wasn’t that Jorts wasn’t learning; it was that Jorts didn’t really care. And to be honest, neither did most of the staff. The truth was that Jorts was beloved for his clumsy, carefree attitude. He wasn’t meant to be a high performer, and that was perfectly fine with everyone except Pam.
This particular morning, things started to get a little… messy.
Pam had set up a training station in the break room, using the door to the supply closet as her obstacle course for the day. She had tied a string to the handle, hoping that Jorts would pull it and open the door. The cat, of course, had other plans. He walked up to the door, sniffed it for a moment, then began to bat at the string with his paw. He gave a few disinterested half-hearted swats before getting distracted by the sound of a crinkling snack bag on someone’s desk.
Pam’s frustration grew by the second as Jorts wandered off, content to leave the door closed, the string still hanging loosely from the handle. The office began to fill with an odd mixture of awkward chuckles and forced silence, as employees exchanged glances. Jean, who had been watching from her high perch, gave an almost imperceptible roll of her eyes before returning to her cat nap.
“Jorts! No! Focus!” Pam called out, but the cat was now on the floor, chasing his own tail as if there was nothing in the world more important. A few people snickered. A few others tried to pretend they weren’t noticing the escalating scene.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Pam asked, her voice rising in frustration as she walked over to Jorts. “You need to learn how to open this door so you can—”
And that’s when it happened.
In his typical clumsy fashion, Jorts tried to leap onto a nearby chair, missed his landing, and sent the chair crashing against the door. The loud bang echoed through the office. Pam, startled, watched as the door swung open a little bit—just enough for Jean, who had apparently decided she was done observing and wanted in on the action, to dart through and claim her territory.
There was a moment of silence, and then the chaos erupted.
Jean, in her usual graceful manner, squeezed through the gap and into the supply closet. Jorts, seeing the opening, immediately tried to follow her. But as usual, the door swung shut again, trapping Jean inside.
Pam gasped and turned to look at me. “Jean’s locked in there! She can’t get out!” She sounded almost panicked. “She’s too smart to get stuck like this!”
I stood up from my desk and walked over, trying to stay calm. “Pam, Jean’s fine. She knows how to open the door. This isn’t a big deal.”
But Pam wasn’t having it. “No, no, this is serious! What if she gets stuck in there? We can’t let Jean be trapped!”
I walked over to the supply closet, where Jean was calmly waiting. She was indeed stuck, but she wasn’t showing any signs of distress. In fact, Jean seemed perfectly content to just sit and wait for Pam to work her magic. When I opened the door for her, Jean sauntered out with the elegance only a cat could pull off, completely unbothered by the ordeal.
Pam, however, was still shaking her head in disbelief. “I can’t believe this is happening,” she muttered under her breath, watching Jean saunter away like nothing had happened.
I leaned back against the counter and sighed. It wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate Pam’s enthusiasm—she truly cared about the cats, especially Jorts—but this had gotten a bit ridiculous. It wasn’t as if Jorts was the next feline Einstein. The idea that a cat was going to learn how to open a door in a professional setting seemed… well, a bit far-fetched.
Just as I was about to offer a word of encouragement, Pam stormed over to the whiteboard and erased the task that had been written in big red letters: “Teach Jorts how to open the supply closet door.” Then, in an exaggerated motion, she scrawled a new task:
“Teach Jorts to be a better cat.”
It was as if she was declaring war on his very essence, a cat who just wanted to nap in peace and occasionally knock things over.
By now, the rest of the office was watching, some quietly, some chuckling softly, and a few openly trying to suppress their amusement. I had to admit, it was hard not to laugh at the sheer absurdity of the situation.
“I mean, really,” I said, turning to Pam. “You can’t expect Jorts to be a door-opening genius. Maybe we should just let him be… well, Jorts.”
Pam didn’t seem to hear me. Her gaze was fixed on the whiteboard, as though she was plotting her next move in this battle of wills.
“Jorts will learn,” she said, more to herself than to anyone else. “I know he will.”
The day continued, but the energy in the office was different. There was an undercurrent of tension, a growing sense that Pam’s obsession with Jorts’ development was becoming more of a distraction than a delight. As much as everyone loved having the cats around, there was something increasingly uncomfortable about the way Pam was handling it. She wasn’t just trying to help Jorts. She was trying to fix him—turning something as simple as an office cat into a personal project.
Little did anyone know that this would only be the beginning. Pam’s next move would take things to a whole new level, one that would challenge the very balance of the office and the delicate line between affection and obsession.
The Tipping Point
The next morning, the office buzzed with a strange energy. As soon as I walked in, I could sense that something had shifted. People were speaking in lower voices, their eyes flicking nervously to the whiteboard, where Pam had written her new task for the day: “Teach Jorts how to perform a basic trick.” But the tension in the room wasn’t just because of Pam’s continued obsession with Jorts’ “education.” It was also about the new, unspoken problem—her reaction to my joke about Jorts’ intelligence.
I had only made a harmless comment the day before, something along the lines of, “You can’t expect Jean’s tortoiseshell smarts from orange cat Jorts,” but apparently, I had struck a nerve. Pam hadn’t looked at me the same way since. And now, it seemed like every step she took was a little more calculated, a little more deliberate. She was angry—and I had no idea how to fix it.
The morning passed slowly as Pam quietly worked at her desk, ignoring the usual banter. Jean, ever the independent cat, moved around as usual, lounging on the windowsill, unbothered by the drama that had unfolded. Jorts, on the other hand, was in full-on trouble mode. He had managed to knock over a plant in the breakroom and was now trying to chase a piece of crinkled paper that had fallen onto the floor. The distraction was the perfect opportunity for Pam to pull out her notebook and jot down notes about how she could teach Jorts to clean up his own mess.
I tried to focus on my work, but it was hard to ignore the feeling that something had broken—like an invisible wall had formed between us. The constant tension surrounding Jorts, combined with Pam’s increasingly rigid approach to training him, was making the office feel uncomfortable. What had started as a humorous little distraction had now become something more serious.
Pam’s eyes met mine across the room, and for a brief moment, I saw the frustration behind her otherwise calm demeanor. She was hurt. And I knew that she wasn’t going to let it go until she addressed the situation in some way.
When lunchtime came, I decided to approach Pam. She had been sitting at her desk, scribbling furiously in her notebook, probably adding more unrealistic goals to her list for Jorts. As I walked up, she didn’t even look up. She was focused, writing.
“Pam,” I said gently. “Can we talk?”
Pam’s pen stopped moving, but she didn’t look up right away. Instead, she took a long breath and set her pen down. Finally, she met my eyes, her expression guarded.
“I guess we need to talk,” she said, her voice tight. “About what happened yesterday.”
I took a seat across from her. The weight of the conversation loomed in the air. I wasn’t sure how to address the tension between us, but I had to try.
“I didn’t mean to upset you with the joke,” I began. “It was just a little joke, but I get that it came out wrong. I wasn’t trying to offend you.”
Pam crossed her arms over her chest. She seemed to consider my words carefully before speaking.
“It’s not about the joke itself,” she said slowly. “It’s about the implications behind it. The idea that somehow, orange cats are ‘dumb’—that it’s a thing that we can just joke about. It perpetuates a stereotype that’s hurtful. And it’s not funny.”
I was caught off guard. The air between us had thickened, and I realized that what I thought was a harmless joke had struck a deeper chord than I’d anticipated. Pam wasn’t just angry; she was deeply upset. This wasn’t just about Jorts, or even about me. It was about something bigger—something that had to do with respect, humor, and boundaries.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” I said, trying to backtrack. “I wasn’t trying to make it about anything more than just Jorts being, well, Jorts. You know he’s not the brightest cat around.”
“I get that,” Pam said, her voice quieter now. “But that’s just it. You’re making it about him being ‘less than’ because of what he looks like. It’s like… it’s like when people make jokes about certain groups of people being less capable based on their background or their appearance. It’s not something to joke about, especially here, in this space.”
Her words stung, but I could tell she wasn’t trying to attack me personally. She was trying to explain why my comment had been hurtful, even if I hadn’t realized it. This wasn’t just about Jorts being “dumb” or “simple.” It was about something much deeper, something that could be applied to real-life issues of identity, discrimination, and respect.
I thought about it for a moment. In the grand scheme of things, was calling Jorts “dumb” really that serious? Or was it just a silly, harmless comment? And yet, I understood what Pam was saying. Maybe I had been too quick to dismiss something that, in hindsight, could have been a larger reflection of how we viewed things—how we joked about things that weren’t actually funny.
“I see your point,” I said slowly, trying to gather my thoughts. “I didn’t mean to make it about anything more than a silly comment. But I get why you’re upset. I’m sorry.”
Pam looked at me, and for the first time, I saw her eyes soften a little. She nodded.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “I appreciate that. But just… let’s be more mindful of how we talk about things, okay? It’s important, even when it’s just a joke.”
I nodded, feeling a sense of relief. We weren’t at the same place yet, but at least we were understanding each other. That was something, I thought. At least it wasn’t as awkward as I had feared.
After a long pause, Pam gave a small smile. “Let’s just make sure Jorts doesn’t get locked in the closet again. That’s all I ask.”
I chuckled, the tension in the room starting to dissolve. “Agreed. And I’ll stop making jokes about his intelligence, I promise.”
The Training Continues
The office was a strange blend of the usual humdrum workday chaos and an undercurrent of unspoken tension. I had hoped that after my talk with Pam, things would settle back to normal, but the day after our conversation felt heavier than expected. Pam was still determined to teach Jorts how to “unlock” the mysteries of doors. She kept coming into the office early and staying late, practically obsessed with the idea of training him. I couldn’t help but wonder—did she really believe it was possible, or was this some way to channel her frustration over our conversation?
I knew I had hurt her feelings, but there was something about Pam’s single-minded focus on Jorts that unsettled me. Every morning, as I walked into the office, I would hear her softly talking to him, coaxing him to use his paws the right way, to push the door in the “correct” direction. I had to admit, the whole thing was a bit over the top. It was clear that her sense of purpose was tied to this mission, and as much as I admired her dedication, I couldn’t shake the feeling that she was pushing Jorts too far.
That particular morning, I arrived to see Jorts again trapped inside the closet, banging his large, orange head against the door. He looked so helpless, his big, round eyes wide with confusion, as if he were silently begging for someone to let him out.
Pam was crouched next to the door, her face a study of concentration, as she muttered, “No, Jorts, you need to use your paw like this—”
I sighed, walking over to her. “Pam, I think we’ve been through this before. Maybe it’s time to face facts—Jorts just isn’t the brightest cat. We can’t force him to be something he’s not.”
Pam’s head snapped up, her eyes flashing with determination. “You’re wrong,” she said firmly. “He just needs more time. If we keep practicing, he’ll get it.”
I couldn’t help but admire her persistence, but I also knew that some things were just not meant to be. Jorts was who he was—a sweet, goofy cat who just didn’t have the capacity to understand the intricacies of door knobs.
After a few minutes of trying to encourage Jorts to use his paw in a way that was clearly beyond his comprehension, Pam finally sighed. “I think we need a new approach.”
I glanced at the door, thinking of the new cat cutout I had installed. While it wasn’t a perfect solution, it did provide an alternative route for Jean to escape the closet without Jorts being able to trap himself inside. I had hoped that would ease some of the tension, but it seemed Pam was not satisfied.
She stood up, dusting off her pants, and turned to me. “I’m going to get him to do this, even if it takes me all day,” she said, her voice tinged with frustration.
I raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure about that?”
Pam squared her shoulders. “Absolutely. He’s capable of learning. He just needs someone to believe in him.”
I gave her a small, sympathetic smile. “I think Jorts might be better off learning how to be the best version of himself, without us trying to make him something he’s not.”
Pam didn’t respond. Instead, she grabbed a ball of yarn and dangled it in front of Jorts, trying to coax him into opening the door by enticing him with a game. The sight was both comical and a little heartbreaking. It was clear to me now: Pam was driven by something deeper than just a desire to teach a cat how to open a door. She was trying to prove something to herself, perhaps even to me.
But I wasn’t sure what that was.
Later that day, as the office quieted down, I found myself sitting at my desk, pondering everything that had happened. Pam and I had come a long way in a short time, but there were still cracks in the foundation of our relationship. I couldn’t help but feel that there was more to this whole situation than met the eye.
The real issue wasn’t just about teaching a cat to open doors. It was about control, about the way we each navigated our personal insecurities. Pam’s need to train Jorts was a reflection of her own desire to make sense of the world, to control something that felt unpredictable and chaotic.
I thought back to the way she had looked at me during our conversation—hurt, frustrated, but still hoping that we could find common ground. I could tell she didn’t want to hold on to her anger forever. She wanted to be understood, even if it meant confronting difficult truths.
And I was starting to realize that maybe I, too, had some things to confront about myself.
As the days passed, Pam’s obsession with Jorts’ “training” continued. She would approach him every morning, ready to try again. I started to notice something curious, however—Jean was growing increasingly agitated. She would hiss at Jorts every time he got near the door, as if to remind him that the whole situation was getting out of hand. I could see it in her body language—Jean had had enough of the constant focus on Jorts.
One afternoon, after an especially frustrating training session, Pam threw her hands up in the air. “This is hopeless!” she exclaimed, her voice filled with exasperation. “Why can’t he just do what I ask?”
I stood up from my desk, walking over to her. “Maybe he doesn’t need to do what you ask, Pam,” I said gently. “Maybe he just needs us to let him be himself.”
Pam stared at me for a long moment before finally nodding. “Maybe you’re right. I just… I just wanted to help him.”
I smiled softly. “You’ve been doing your best. Maybe it’s time to let Jorts do what he does best—being Jorts.”
Pam laughed, a small but genuine chuckle that made the tension in the room dissipate. “You know, you’re right. Maybe I’ve been pushing too hard.”
I felt a sense of relief. It wasn’t a perfect resolution, but it was a start.
As the week wore on, things in the office slowly returned to normal. Pam didn’t stop caring about Jorts, but she became more balanced in her approach. The constant pressure to “train” him eased, and she began to accept him for who he was—simple, sweet, and wonderfully imperfect.
And in a strange way, I found that the cats—Jean and Jorts—had become more than just office pets. They were a reminder of the complexities of relationships, of our shared humanity, and of the way we each navigated the unpredictable parts of life.
Pam and I still had a lot to work through, but I knew that as long as we respected each other’s boundaries and allowed room for growth, we would find our way. After all, if we could figure out how to deal with a simple, silly cat, maybe we could figure out how to navigate the more complicated challenges of life as well.
The Calm Before the Storm
The atmosphere in the office had shifted. The lingering tension between Pam and me had started to ease, but not without a few growing pains. I could sense that we were both walking on eggshells, each of us trying to understand the other’s boundaries while still feeling the undercurrent of frustration that had been festering for weeks. The office environment had always been one of mutual respect and camaraderie, but now, it felt as if every conversation carried a weight that it hadn’t before.
Jean, as always, had remained a steady presence. The tortoiseshell cat’s quiet grace was a constant reminder that sometimes, the best approach was the simplest. She could open doors, navigate the workplace with ease, and somehow manage to avoid getting stuck in the same traps as Jorts. Jean didn’t need training. She was content in her own skin. Her calm demeanor only emphasized the contrast between the chaos of Pam’s relentless training sessions with Jorts.
It wasn’t that I had anything against Pam’s enthusiasm—after all, her desire to help Jorts was rooted in kindness—but there was a growing awareness that perhaps her expectations were unrealistic. She was trying to change something fundamental about him, and in doing so, she was risking alienating herself from the very cat she was trying to help. That’s the thing about expectations—they don’t always align with reality. And in this case, reality was a large, orange cat who was simply doing the best he could.
A few days after the cutout installation and the relative calm that followed, I found myself in the break room, grabbing a cup of coffee. Pam walked in, her face somewhat tense but not entirely hostile. She had taken a few steps back from her mission to teach Jorts how to open doors, but it was clear that the conversation we had earlier had left its mark.
“Hey,” Pam said, her voice a little softer than usual. “Can we talk?”
I nodded, motioning for her to sit down. The awkwardness between us was palpable, but I was determined to clear the air.
“I’ve been thinking about… everything,” Pam began, looking down at her hands. “I know I’ve been pushing Jorts too hard. I just—I guess I wanted to make a difference, you know? I wanted to be the one who helped him. And it felt like you weren’t taking it seriously.”
I took a sip of my coffee, trying to think carefully about my response. “Pam, it’s not that I don’t care about Jorts. I do. But sometimes, the best thing we can do is accept the way things are. Jorts isn’t going to be able to open doors like Jean, and that’s okay. He’s still valuable to this workplace. We don’t need to change him to make him worthwhile.”
Pam nodded slowly, her eyes fixed on the floor. “I guess I’ve been projecting a little too much. I thought if I could teach him this one thing, then maybe I could prove that I could make a difference in his life, that I could fix something. But I realize now that maybe I was trying to fix myself, too.”
There it was—the raw truth. Pam wasn’t just trying to help Jorts. She was trying to prove something to herself, something that went beyond training a cat to open a door. She wanted to prove that she could make an impact, that she could change things. It wasn’t just about Jorts anymore—it was about her.
I placed my coffee cup on the table, leaning in slightly. “Pam, you don’t need to fix anything. You don’t need to prove anything to anyone. You’re a good person, and you’ve done a lot of great things for this place. Sometimes, we don’t have to change everything to make a difference. Sometimes, we just have to accept things as they are.”
There was a long silence between us, and I could tell Pam was processing everything. Finally, she looked up at me, her eyes filled with gratitude. “I think I’ve been too hard on myself. Maybe it’s time to let go of the idea of ‘fixing’ Jorts. Maybe it’s time to just let him be Jorts.”
A small smile tugged at my lips. “Exactly.”
Over the next few days, Pam made an effort to change her approach. Instead of obsessively trying to teach Jorts how to navigate doors, she simply let him be. She stopped hovering over him, stopped trying to “train” him at every opportunity. Instead, she allowed him to make mistakes, to get stuck in the closet when he couldn’t find his way out. She still loved him—this goofy, stubborn, orange cat—but she accepted him for who he was.
And in turn, Jorts seemed to thrive in his own way. Without the pressure to perform, he began to find his own rhythm. Jean, always the quiet observer, started to pay more attention to him, too. The two cats would often be found curled up together in the sunbeam that streamed through the office window, their heads resting on each other in a way that spoke of quiet companionship and acceptance. It was a beautiful thing to watch, the way they had come together despite their differences.
One afternoon, as I watched Pam and Jorts interact, something shifted. It wasn’t a dramatic moment, but it was significant. Pam crouched down to Jorts’ level, offering him a toy, and instead of trying to get him to do something specific, she simply laughed when he knocked it over in his clumsy way. She didn’t try to correct him; she just let him be himself, embracing the silliness of the moment. For the first time in weeks, Pam seemed truly at peace.
And I realized something: the training, the teaching, and the pressure to change didn’t matter. What mattered was the relationship we had with each other—the mutual understanding and respect. Sometimes, the best thing we could do was to accept the imperfections of the people and pets around us, to let go of our need to control everything. In the end, it wasn’t about fixing Jorts—it was about accepting him for who he was, and in doing so, accepting ourselves.
By the end of the week, things had returned to a semblance of normalcy. Pam and I had come to a better understanding of each other, and the office felt lighter. The tension between us had melted away, replaced by a renewed sense of camaraderie. And Jorts, well, he was still the same simple cat, doing his best in his own unique way.
Jean, ever the quiet observer, seemed to approve of the changes. She had always been the calm in the storm, the steady presence that balanced out the chaos. With her quiet grace, she reminded us that sometimes, the best way forward was to simply be present, without trying to fix everything around us.
And so, life at the office went on, with the cats serving as a gentle reminder that, in the grand scheme of things, it’s the imperfections that make life beautiful.
The Unexpected Lesson
Things had returned to a steady rhythm at the office. The shift in dynamic between Pam and me, and the newfound peace in the workplace, was palpable. Even Jorts seemed to be more content, no longer struggling against expectations that were too heavy for him. The office cats—Jean and Jorts—had become the unofficial symbols of balance, a reminder that sometimes, it’s the simplest beings that offer the most profound lessons.
But, as life often does, things took another unexpected turn.
It started on a quiet Wednesday afternoon, just as I was about to finish my work for the day. I was at my desk, typing away, when I heard a strange, frantic sound. It was coming from the hallway—a mix between an odd meow and the sound of something heavy being knocked over. At first, I thought it might be Jean getting into one of her usual adventures, but then I heard the unmistakable thud of Jorts’ heavy paws.
I rushed out of my office and saw the scene unfolding in front of me. Jorts had managed to trap himself in a small corner of the break room, where he had knocked over a shelf that held a variety of office supplies. Papers were scattered everywhere, and Jorts, for all his clumsiness, was doing his best to figure out how to get out. But instead of trying to push through the door or trap himself in further, he stood there, looking helpless, his big orange eyes wide with confusion.
Pam was standing by the door, her hands on her hips, looking both exasperated and somewhat defeated. She had been trying to get Jorts to navigate through this particular obstacle for weeks, and clearly, the frustration was starting to show.
“Jorts!” Pam exclaimed. “What are you doing now?”
I walked over to her and surveyed the scene. “He’s stuck, Pam. It’s okay. Let’s just help him out.”
Pam turned to me, looking both surprised and, for the first time in a long while, a little vulnerable. “I don’t understand. I’ve been working with him for weeks. I’ve tried everything, and he just doesn’t get it.”
I crouched down beside Jorts, offering my hand. The big cat looked up at me, as if he knew I was the one who could help him. With one simple motion, I gently pulled the shelf away from him, creating enough space for him to squeeze through. He hesitated for a moment, his large body pressing against the narrow gap, but then he moved forward, finally free from the entrapment.
“Good boy,” I said softly, giving him a pat.
Pam watched the whole scene unfold in silence. Her expression had shifted from frustration to something else—maybe realization, maybe acceptance. When Jorts had finally made it out, Pam bent down beside him, her voice softer now.
“I don’t know why I kept pushing him,” she said quietly. “I kept expecting him to be something he’s not. And the harder I tried, the more stuck he got.”
I didn’t say anything for a moment. I was still processing her words. The thing was, Pam had been stuck in the same way. She had been so focused on teaching Jorts to be something he wasn’t, she couldn’t see that he was perfectly fine just the way he was. Just as Jorts had been trapped by an obstacle he couldn’t move past, Pam had been trapped by her own expectations. She had been pushing him to be something more, when all he needed was to be accepted for who he was.
It was a quiet moment, but one that spoke volumes. For the first time in a long time, Pam seemed to get it. She had spent so much energy trying to change Jorts, trying to make him into something more than what he was. But in doing so, she had missed the point that he, like all of us, was perfect in his own way—imperfections and all.
In the days that followed, Pam’s approach to Jorts became more relaxed. She stopped the incessant training and instead began to appreciate the quirks that made him who he was. She would occasionally give him a gentle nudge to help him navigate a door, but it was no longer the daily battle it had been. She didn’t force him into things he wasn’t capable of, but instead embraced the silliness of his personality.
And, in turn, Jorts seemed to thrive. He started to explore more freely, making his own decisions and getting himself into just the right amount of mischief. He still got stuck in the occasional closet, and sometimes he knocked over a cup or two, but that was just part of his charm. Pam learned to laugh at him, to appreciate his simplicity instead of trying to fix it. And it made all the difference.
It wasn’t just about the cats, though. The lesson of Jorts’ simple nature wasn’t lost on the rest of the office either. It reminded us all of something important: sometimes, in our quest to improve things, to make them better, we forget that the things we love don’t always need fixing. Sometimes, the best thing we can do is to let them be.
I saw it in the way the team began to interact with each other after that day. There was a shift in the air—a softening, a willingness to let go of the constant striving for perfection. In our work, in our relationships, and even in our interactions with the cats, there was a newfound acceptance of imperfection.
It wasn’t that we didn’t strive for improvement—it was simply that we learned to appreciate things just as they were, flaws and all.
One day, as I sat at my desk, taking a brief moment to reflect on everything that had transpired over the past few weeks, I couldn’t help but smile at the sound of Jorts meowing from the hallway. I turned just in time to see him lumber into the break room, a cup stuck on his head. It wasn’t a big deal. He’d done this before. But this time, instead of rushing to help him, Pam simply chuckled and said, “Don’t worry, Jorts. You’ll figure it out.”
And in that moment, I realized that Jorts had taught us something far more profound than any of us could have anticipated.
The Unexpected Catalyst
Life at the office had settled into a harmonious routine. Pam had found a new rhythm, one where she no longer tried to “fix” Jorts, and the team began to embrace the quirks of both the cats and each other. It wasn’t always easy to accept imperfection, but we had learned, over the course of weeks, how much simpler and more rewarding life could be when we let go of our expectations.
But, as often happens in life, a new challenge was on the horizon. It didn’t come from Jorts or even Pam, but from a situation none of us could have predicted—a situation that would test everything we’d learned and force us to confront our own vulnerabilities.
It all started on a Thursday morning. I had arrived at work early, as usual, to get a jumpstart on a project I was working on. The office was still quiet, the hum of the fluorescent lights the only sound filling the space. Jorts, as usual, was lounging on his favorite perch in the corner, one paw lazily resting on the edge of a chair. Jean, ever the more active one, was darting around, chasing a string that someone had carelessly left on the floor.
But it wasn’t the cats that caught my attention. It was Pam’s sudden arrival that did. She came into the office looking visibly agitated, her eyes puffy as if she had been crying. Her usual confidence was gone, replaced with a look of uncertainty.
I immediately got up from my desk and walked over to her. “Hey, Pam. You okay?”
Pam gave a forced smile, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. “Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just…” She trailed off, glancing around the office as though unsure of how to explain herself.
“Just what?” I pressed gently, hoping to get her to open up.
Pam sighed, running a hand through her hair. “I had an argument with my partner last night. It’s just… it was a big one. And I don’t know what to do.”
I felt my heart soften. I had known that Pam’s personal life wasn’t exactly a walk in the park. She had always been the kind of person who threw herself into work, perhaps as a way to avoid dealing with her own feelings. But now, standing before me, I could see the weight of everything she was carrying. She wasn’t the bubbly, self-assured Pam I had known—she was someone who needed help, someone who was hurting.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I offered, gently nudging her toward one of the chairs in the break room.
Pam hesitated, then nodded, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. “We’ve been having issues for a while now. It’s like we’re just not… connecting anymore. We’re constantly fighting over small things, and I don’t know how to fix it. It’s like we’re just living in two separate worlds now, and I don’t know how to get through to him.”
I sat down beside her, carefully choosing my words. “Relationships are hard, Pam. But you can’t always fix everything by trying to force things to be perfect. You’ve seen how much Jorts has taught us, right? Sometimes, the best thing we can do is just accept the messiness and move forward from there.”
Pam looked at me, her eyes searching mine for any hint of advice. “But how? How do you accept something when it feels like it’s falling apart?”
It was a question I had asked myself many times over the years. Life had a way of challenging us, of throwing obstacles in our path that felt impossible to navigate. But I knew one thing: sometimes, the hardest thing to do was to let go of the expectation that things could be perfect, that they could be controlled.
“You just start with yourself,” I said softly. “You can’t change someone else, but you can change how you respond to them. Sometimes, accepting imperfection means accepting your own vulnerabilities.”
Pam nodded slowly, the weight of the conversation sinking in. “I think I’m afraid of what happens if we stop trying to fix things. What if it means we’re just giving up?”
“It doesn’t have to mean giving up,” I reassured her. “It means letting go of the need to control everything. Life will always be messy, but that’s part of the beauty of it. You don’t have to fix every little thing, Pam. Sometimes, the best you can do is accept where you are right now and decide to move forward, no matter how uncertain it feels.”
Pam took a deep breath, her shoulders relaxing for the first time since I had seen her that morning. “I think I understand. I’ve been so focused on trying to fix everything, on being perfect. I didn’t realize how much that was hurting me.”
We sat in silence for a while, both of us reflecting on the conversation. It was a rare moment of vulnerability for Pam, and it reminded me that no one—no matter how confident or strong they appeared—was immune to struggles. We all carried burdens, whether it was in our personal relationships or in the way we navigated life. And sometimes, the best thing we could do for each other was to be there, to listen, and to remind each other that it was okay to be imperfect.
The rest of the day passed quietly. Pam didn’t seem to have all the answers—none of us did—but there was a new sense of calm about her. It was as if a weight had been lifted, even if only for a moment.
As I walked back to my desk, I couldn’t help but think about how much our office had changed in the past few weeks. It wasn’t just about the cats anymore. It was about us, too. We had all learned something from Jorts, from Pam, and even from Jean. We had learned that it was okay to be imperfect, to stumble, and to not always have everything figured out.
In a way, it was the greatest lesson of all.
Unspoken Bonds
The weeks that followed Pam’s emotional breakthrough were quiet, almost surreal in their peace. It wasn’t that the office had suddenly become a utopia—far from it—but there was a sense of harmony that hadn’t existed before. The once-constant undercurrent of tension had slowly dissipated, leaving space for connection and understanding to take root.
Jorts, true to his nature, continued his antics. He was still the lovable, albeit somewhat dim-witted, cat who couldn’t open doors. But now, when he found himself trapped in a closet or meowing helplessly for attention, there was no longer any frustration in the air. Instead, it felt like part of the charm of our little office ecosystem. We all understood that Jorts would never be the type to solve puzzles or grasp the complex intricacies of daily life. And that was okay.
Pam, after her confrontation with her partner, had become quieter, more introspective. She no longer tried to “fix” everything in the office, especially Jorts. I noticed that when Pam spoke about him, it was less about “teaching” him and more about observing him with affection. She seemed to have come to terms with the fact that some things, both in life and in cats, were just meant to be the way they were.
Jean, on the other hand, continued to thrive. Her intelligence and poise were unquestionable, and she had become the quiet leader of the duo. Every time Jorts found himself stuck or needing assistance, Jean was there, either guiding him or—more often than not—simply waiting patiently for him to figure things out on his own. It was a beautiful, almost poetic balance between the two.
But as time went on, something unexpected began to unfold—something I couldn’t have predicted. It was subtle at first, an almost imperceptible shift, but soon it became undeniable.
Pam, the same woman who had once been so focused on controlling every aspect of life, had started to change—not just in how she viewed Jorts, but in how she viewed herself.
One Tuesday morning, she arrived at the office a little earlier than usual, her face bright with excitement. “I’ve decided,” she announced to the team, her eyes gleaming with purpose. “I’m going to sign up for a yoga class.”
I blinked, momentarily caught off guard. Pam, the woman who had spent years burying herself in work, suddenly deciding to take up yoga? It didn’t seem like something I would expect from her, but then again, perhaps that was exactly the point. She was doing something just for herself.
“That’s awesome, Pam,” I said, genuinely happy for her. “I think you’ll love it.”
Pam grinned, her energy infectious. “I’m hoping it’ll help me clear my head. With everything going on, I just need something that’s not work, not fixing anyone else’s problems. Just me, on a mat, breathing.”
It struck me then—Pam was letting go. She was learning to take time for herself, to breathe and exist outside of the chaos that had defined her life for so long. It was a small step, but it was monumental for her.
That afternoon, during a particularly long team meeting, I caught Pam sitting at her desk, scribbling something in her notebook. At first, I thought she was taking notes, but when I glanced over again, I realized she was writing a list. I tilted my head, curious, and she caught my gaze. There was a brief, almost shy smile before she slid the notebook in my direction.
“Want to read it?” she asked quietly.
I took the notebook from her, skimming the list of things Pam had decided to try in the coming months: yoga, painting, hiking, cooking a new recipe every week, and—most telling of all—learning to appreciate moments of stillness. There was something profoundly vulnerable about the list, something that made me realize just how far Pam had come. She was no longer trying to fix everything or keep herself buried under the weight of expectations. She was starting to focus on herself, to give herself permission to be imperfect.
The next week, Pam attended her first yoga class. I was surprised when she came into the office the following morning, looking a little sore but undeniably happier.
“I did it!” she declared, grinning as she collapsed into the chair next to me. “I almost passed out from all the stretching, but I did it. I think this might be what I need. To just be present, you know?”
I laughed, genuinely pleased for her. “That’s amazing, Pam. I’m so proud of you for stepping out of your comfort zone.”
Pam smiled, but there was a reflective note in her voice when she spoke next. “I think I’ve been running from myself for a long time. Always focused on fixing things, on making everything perfect. But maybe the real answer is to just be. To be in the moment, to let go of the things I can’t change.”
Her words struck me deeply, and for the first time in a while, I felt a sense of awe toward my colleague. Pam wasn’t just teaching herself to relax; she was teaching herself to embrace the ebb and flow of life, to understand that things didn’t always have to be controlled or fixed. It was a lesson I had been learning, too, and one I was starting to see reflected in the work we all did together.
That afternoon, we sat in the break room, sharing stories and laughter as Jorts wandered in, meowing for food. Jean followed closely behind, her eyes wise and observant as she surveyed the room. For once, no one was trying to “teach” anything. We were simply being—being together in a space that was messy, imperfect, and yet filled with a quiet sense of understanding.
As Pam gently rubbed Jorts’s belly, her earlier tension had dissipated. She no longer seemed like the person desperately trying to fix everything. Now, she was someone who understood the beauty of letting go.
We didn’t need to change the way we worked, or the way we interacted. What we needed, we had already learned: the willingness to accept, to embrace imperfection, and to find peace in the chaos of it all.
And for the first time in a long while, that was enough.
Reflections and Resolutions
As the days turned into weeks, Pam’s transformation became increasingly evident, not just in her demeanor but in the office’s atmosphere as a whole. No longer did she feel the need to impose her solutions on everyone around her. There was a quiet acceptance in the way she now moved through the world—a gentleness in her interactions, a softness to her words.
Pam had come to understand something profound: life didn’t need to be a series of problems to solve. Not everything was about fixing or improving; sometimes, the beauty of life lay in simply existing, in accepting things as they were. She wasn’t perfect, nor did she need to be, and that realization had given her the freedom to be more present, more connected with herself and the world around her.
And as for Jorts—well, Jorts continued to be Jorts. The orange cat still had his quirky ways, still got himself stuck in places, still found ways to make us laugh. But now, there was no longer a need to “fix” him. He was loved for who he was, not in spite of his flaws but because of them. His imperfections, just like Pam’s, were what made him special.
As Pam sat at her desk one afternoon, quietly observing Jorts, who was once again trapped in a closet, she smiled. This time, she didn’t rush to “rescue” him. Instead, she let him figure it out on his own, knowing that, in his own time, he would. And when he eventually pushed open the door, emerging with a meow of triumph, it was a small victory for both him and her.
Pam had finally learned to let go—not just of Jorts’s flaws but of her own expectations. Life wasn’t about always being in control or always trying to “fix” things; sometimes, the best thing you could do was step back, allow things to unfold naturally, and simply be present in the moment.
Later that week, Pam came to me during lunch. Her usual intensity had softened, replaced with a new sense of calm. “I wanted to thank you,” she said quietly. “For being patient with me. For helping me see that I didn’t have to be so hard on myself.”
I smiled, touched by her words. “You’ve done all the work yourself, Pam. You just had to let yourself see it.”
She nodded, and for the first time in a long while, I saw a genuine peace in her eyes. The journey wasn’t over for any of us—we were all still learning, still evolving. But in that moment, it felt like we were exactly where we were supposed to be.
And maybe that was enough.
As we sat there, the sound of Jorts’s meowing in the background, I realized that this strange little office—our quirky, imperfect workplace—was exactly the place where we were all meant to be. We weren’t perfect. We weren’t always right. But together, in all our messiness, we had created something beautiful.
The cats, the people, the moments of laughter and frustration—all of it made up the tapestry of our lives. And for once, that tapestry didn’t need to be fixed. It just needed to be appreciated.
