Fuzzy fission

Cats are more trouble than they're worth. 

Now, before you go branding me a cat hater, let me tell you a story of Mr. Tibbins. 

I work at the Brightwater Nuclear Facility. Never heard of it? Good. It is a top-secret facility that houses nuclear weapons for impoverished third world countries who decided to invest their country's dwindling financial resources in something a bit more Avante Garde than medicine and food reserves for the people. Let me tell you, it was all the rage in the 80s.

Our job at Brightwater Nuclear Facility is to house the aforementioned weapons until such a time that a disgruntled dictator decides to throw a tantrum and declare nuclear war. Unfortunately, should the dictator decide to declare war, he would surely lose as many countries who make use of our facilities don't have many nuclear devices stored. I won't name and shame the countries that do use our facilities. It seems a breach of confidentiality. Suffice it to say that many of our clientele call Africa or South America their home continent. 

What the facility houses in fact are the shells of the bombs with all of the necessary wirings in place. The radioactive rods are stored off-site because thankfully the brains behind this facility are not idiots. Or supervillains. 

The procedure for launching one of these bombs is actually quite simple. Each bomb bay is remotely controlled by a key. This master key must remain in the keyboard at all times, ready to turn at the drop of an irate leader's hat. Stanley gets paid an absurd amount to keep his eye on this key and to ensure that no one turns it unnecessarily. If it so happens that the key does get turned, either on purpose or accidentally, each employee is notified and is expected to be at the facility within 20 minutes. The situation is either de-escalated or rods get placed into the cone, ready to rumble. 

The key was only turned once accidentally when Delores was cleaning and removed the key for "a bit of a polish." Delores then dropped this very important key into a bucket of soapy water. After drying it, she placed it back in the keyboard and gave it a quick turn to make sure it still works. A dictator woke up to a very stressful notification the next morning, I can assure you. 

The key has never been turned for serious reasons. 

Part of the service Brightwater Nuclear Facility offers is the regular maintenance of the wiring inside the bomb so that they are always ready for action, so to speak. Being situated on the outskirts of a woods, and being weatherproof, has made the building an attractive property location for local mice. 

The solution: cats. 

Brightwater Nuclear Facility is now the proud owner of a colony of cats. All spayed and neutered, of course. There is no sense in replacing one infestation with another. 

The cats are cared for and well-loved. 

No area was off-limits to the cats. In fact, many of the cats have higher security clearance than either my colleagues or I. Not that we're bitter. It's just an observation. 

The cats are all anonymous to the staff, except Mr. Tibbins.

Mr. Tibbins loves Stanley. He is always following him. Stanley returns the affinity for Mr. Tibbins, giving him an actual name beyond “cat” and a collar with his name embroidered in gold thread. He has his own special chair, that is placed underneath Stanley’s desk. You know, the desk that has the special key. That desk.

Generally, Mr. Tibbins is very good at remaining on his chair for the duration of Stanley’s shift. He is quite content with the occasional scratch from Stanley on the chin. He only leaves his chair to follow Stanley to the cafeteria for lunch, where they like to share fish-based foods, much to the chagrin of fellow diners.

On the first of June last year, regularly scheduled maintenance was due to take place. This means that there was a bit more activity around the facility. This unfortunately also meant the Mr. Tibbins got fewer chin scratches from Stanley than normal because Stanley was desperately pressing buttons and pulling gauges in particular sequences. Just to check that they’re still working. 

This did not well please Mr. Tibbins. He did a few angry mewls and batted at Stanley’s leg. Stanley didn’t really notice. His ignorance of the desperate cat only serve to anger the cat a little bit more.

At one point, Mr. Tibbins sank his teeth into Stanley’s calf muscle as he passed. 

“Ow,” cried Stanley. “Naughty boy. I am just busy now. I will be with you in a second.” Seconds turned to minutes which turned into hours. No lunch was had by Stanley and Mr Tibbins that day, much to the cat’s disgust. 

Finally, in one last desperate attempt to get Stanley’s attention, Mr. Tibbins performed the ultimate verboten manoeuvre and deftly jumped onto Stanley’s desk. 

“No, no, boy, you know you are not allowed on Daddy’s desk!” Stanley scolded. Unfortunately Stanley was one of those people who referred to themselves as their pet’s parent. 

Stanley placed the cat back on his special chair. 

Finally, the maintenance had come to an end and Stanley sat down at his desk. 

“What a day! Mr. Tibbins, you have been a good boy all day,” he said, seemingly confused about what good behaviour really is. It definitely isn’t a biting, clawing cat who interferes with your daily duties. 

He picked the cat onto his lap, generously giving him the love he had desired all day. The cat naturally lapped it up. Strange how cats are so at home with being the centre of attention. 

Suddenly the phone rang, jolting the cat and his not-really owner from their reverie. It is fair to say, of the two, Mr. Tibbins got a bigger fright by the sudden noise.

Suddenly, Mr. Tibbins leapt from Stanley’s lap onto the forbidden keyboard, delirious with alarm.

“Mr. Tibbins, calm down,” said Stanley in a soothing voice in an effort to calm the cat down. The cat was having none of it. He ran to and fro like a mad cat across the desk.

“Hello?” said Stanley into the telephone receiver, hoping that if the noise stopped, so would the cat. It did not work.

Mr. Tibbins made one last dash across the keyboard, low to the oaky desk. As he ran past the master key, his very fancy collar snagged the key, turning it.

Suddenly sirens were blaring. Stanley’s eye grew big and he mimicked the cat’s mad dashes, running to and fro to press every button that read “cancel” in the vicinity.  

Mr. Tibbins was permanently reassigned after that incident. Oh no, nothing ominous. He just went to live with Stanley permanently. At his house. We had a retirement party for Mr. Tibbins and everything. 

A new rule was instituted at the Brightwater Nuclear Facility. So if you ever walk past the facility the doesn’t exist and see cats with shaved necks, don’t be alarmed. Just keep on walking.