My Boss and Her Dog Phuck

Let me start off by saying that my boss is a cat person. We’ve been through three of them since I started working with her 5 years ago.  We’re currently on her fourth.  I’m pissed about this because she had always told me that the only thing keeping her in Canada was her shitty cats.  When they were gone, she was going to be leaving and moving back to England.  I would get a sick surge of hope every time a cat died.  When we were one cat away from her reason for remaining in Canada, she went and adopted a fourth.  The third cat kicked it about a month later.  Sometimes I hate my life.

Here’s why.  My boss sucks.  Her days at “work” consist of any combination of the following:

• reading the newspaper
• twittering
• badmouthing anyone and everyone
• commenting on the state of affairs in jolly old England
• scheming how to be uncooperative
• printing address labels using the special function on the printer that she has never figured out and after half a day abandons her efforts and asks her assistant to do it
• creating a pie chart and printing it out in every colour of the spectrum to see what she likes best
• popping into offices and making weird, contorted facial expressions and awkward body movements to accompany her gossip
• piling work on others and riding on their accomplishments
• doodley-doing (her word, not mine – possibly of Olde English origin)
• asking for bereavement leave each time a cat dies

This brings me to the dog.  You know, the one she fucks every day?

She flits (again, her word, not mine) around and I suppose in her mind this makes her busy, or appear busy.  Sometimes it backfires and people will comment to me, in the form of a question, that they saw my boss several times in one day around their end of the office, far from the desk that should contain her.  I give them the raised eyebrow, half-smile look, and shrug.  What I really want to do is introduce them to her dog, straddle the air in front of me with two hands and start humping it.  Alas, I’m afraid comments would start to circulate about me.

My boss is close to retirement.  She has indicated that she will be leaving in the spring of the coming year, cat or no cat.  This is all good and well, except for the fact that she has been in what I would term “retirement mode” for the past 5 years.  True, since the summer she has indeed ramped up withdrawal from her responsibilities to warp speed.  She seems to have endless vacation and lieu days crawling out of her ass.  This timing of this windfall closely corresponds with the hiring of a new payroll administrator.  And don’t even get me started on sick days.  For the cat, I mean.

It’s not that I don’t get my boss’ mentality.  Why would she give a crap?  It’s not as if she’s building that resume and looking for her next career opportunity.  Her next profession is crazy, apartment dwelling, cat lady anyway.  She’s already got the qualifications.  I don’t even tout the 9-5 office life and plan to ditch it way before I’m at retirement age, but that’s another blog entry altogether.

My real beef, aside from her drawing a generous salary to (not) coordinate a program, is that she treats me like I’m an idiot.   When she attempts to commiserate with me and describe the vast amount of work she’s doing it makes me crazy.  I want to sit her down and tell her to screw off all she feels she must, but don’t come into my office and pretend that something other than her fucking the dog is going on, and that I’m too stupid to figure it out.  Okay, upper management is too stupid to figure it out, but my office is right beside the doghouse and all the droppings land on my doorstep.

One day soon, but not soon enough, I envision my boss leaving for good and her woeful, used up dog trailing behind her.  As soon as that dog steps into her apartment, the last-standing cat is going to beat the crap out of it.  I’ll be at the office, bitterly cleaning up the 5 year mess she left behind.