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Doggy humor: Attorney trouble
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Hobo Hudson
By Hobo Hudson. I had just gotten out of bed and started to check my eBay account so I could give Tom the Ripper, my production manager, the morning’s orders when the doorbell rang. I opened the door, and a cute little investigative poodle from the Pet Network stuck a microphone under my muzzle.
“Any comment Mr. Hobo?” she asked.
I had no idea what she was barking about and could only mumble, “Huh, what are you yapping about?”
“Oh, come on Mr. Hobo. Don’t take that position with me. You know your attorney is a specist [sic]. It was on the late news last night, and I know you had to have seen it. Just look in your back yard.”
I turned my head to look behind me and almost got a crink in my neck. My back yard was full of cats parading back and forth, led by my four cat sisters and Tom the Ripper. They were all carrying signs proclaiming: HOBO UNFAIR TO CATS. I cocked my ears and could hear them chanting, “Fire Foley. Fire Foley.”
I honestly had no idea what this was all about and slammed the door in the reporter’s face after barking, “No comment!”
Composing myself, I trotted out back to find out what was going on. I grabbed Blondie, my manager, by the scruff of her neck to make her drop her protest sign and dragged her into the office, shutting the door with a loud bang behind us.
“OK Blondie,” I growled. “Just what the heck is going on out there?”
Putting her paw on the front page of our daily newspaper she spread out on the desk, she hissed, “Don’t tell me you didn’t know about Miss Foley Monster, your doggy attorney, biting a cat because he was trying to break into his own house, squeezing through his kitty door. That’s species profiling in its worst case! Now, you either fire your attorney or we cats all stay on strike.”
After hurriedly scanning the story, I seized upon a lifeline.
“Look,” I said. “The story says the president has invited the two, Foley and Casper, the cat, to the White House to discuss their differences over a bowl of kibbles.”
“Oh, Hobo,” Blondie meowed. “That’s adding insult to injury. You know we cats don’t eat kibbles. We’ll stay on strike until this situation is ironed out.”
After Blondie stalked out and picked up her sign again, I called my manager at Cat Temps International to get his input. However, instead of the sweet kitten voice purring into the phone, ‘Cat Temps International, this is Cloe. How may I help you?’ I heard an angry voice hissing, “Don’t bother us. We’re closed.”
Clearly, this was outrageous. I immediately entered my override pass code to erase the unruly message and substitute my own howl, “I’m sorry. All our lines are busy. Please leave your name and number and we’ll get back to you very shortly.”
More than agitated, I ran to the front door to catch Dad before he left for work and barked at him to drive me over to the office as fast as he could. On arrival, I saw another huge group of cats protesting in front of the building. They were holding up the same signs insulting me and chanting the same demand to fire Foley Monster while my manager was sitting there watching without trying to mediate.
Jumping out of the car and giving a shrill bark to get the cats’ attention, I pleaded, “Look. Let’s all calm down until we find out what happened. I’m sure it was all just a misunderstanding. Foley’s on her way to the White House right now, and I’m sure we’ll all know the true facts shortly.”
“We know the facts now,” the cats yowled. “Foley’s a specist [sic], and we won’t work for anybody who has her on the payroll.”
“There’s no use trying to reason with them today,” I growled at my manager. “Send the employees home and ask them to come back tomorrow when we find out what really happened.”
I went inside the office and made calls to all the business appointments, explaining we would have to reschedule later in the week. After having taken care of that annoying task, I had Dad drive me back home, where I spent the rest of the day barricaded in Dad’s office out of earshot of the awful chanting outside the house.
The next morning, I woke early and barked at Dad to get the newspaper so I wouldn’t have to show my nose outside. Impatiently, I waited at the door, and when Dad came back, I snatched the paper out of his hand. Even before unfolding it, I saw on the front page the blaring headline: “Foley and Casper agree to disagree.”
Before I could delve into the story, hoping the headline was a mere teaser, I heard a faint scratching at the office window. I looked out and saw Charlene, my squirrel entertainer, staring at me with pleading eyes.
“Oh, Hobo,” she squealed. “What should I do? I’m afraid to cross the picket line, but I just have to work to support my family.”
“Don’t worry Charlene,” I said. “You just stay safe in your oak tree and take care of your family, and I’ll have Dad bring you a big bag of peanuts each day until those stupid cats go back to work. I’m sure we’ll get everything cleared up today so everything will be all right.”
I couldn’t really afford such a generous gesture but what could I do? It wasn’t her fault, and she, as a poor widow squirrel, had four little babies to support. Last year, I had hired her husband, Charley, to provide entertainment for my cat employees, and he was working out great until he didn’t show up for work one morning. When I checked with Charlene, living with her family in the oak tree, she said he had left for his job on time, but she volunteered to fill in until he came back. He never did come back. I didn’t say anything, but I’ve got my suspicions.
Just as I had Charlene calmed down and saw her climbing up the oak tree, the cats began to gather in the back yard for another day of picketing with their signs. Growling, I stomped out of the office to intercept Blondie and called her in for a conference.
“Look,” I said, pointing at the newspaper and placing my paw over the ending to the headline, inconspicuously covering up the last two words. “It says Foley and Casper have agreed.”
“Not so fast, Hobo,” Blondie hissed. “I want to read the entire story.”
After a quick scan, she bowed her back. With her fur standing up, she stalked out the room and into the back yard and yowled at the arriving workers, “Hobo just tried to trick us. Let’s stay on strike and teach him a lesson.”
To my chagrin, all the cats rooted for her pitch, and their chants even grew louder and became more powerful. I couldn’t do anything but cover my ears and avoid looking out of the window.
Right now, it’s looking pretty bleak. My cat employees have been on strike for two weeks. I saw in today’s newspaper the postal service is laying off 30,000 humans because I’ve stopped shipping my merchandise, and yesterday’s paper said our local Goodwill store is closing because I’m not buying. I’m thinking seriously about firing all of my cat employees and opening a factory in Hong Kong where the cats appreciate good jobs.
I’m not too sure, though, how to handle Cat Temps International. I may change the name to Pup Temps International and hire a bunch of young puppies. I’ll have to check with my medical advisers to see if dogs have the same positive effect on human blood pressure as cats. Of course, I’ll have to discontinue the free paw prints on the autos.
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