Marina worked from home and took pride in two things: a ficus plant that had survived three quarterly reports, and her ability to stay silent on morning calls so professionally it could count as a skill. That Tuesday, all she wanted was to sit through the weekly status call in peace, sip her coffee, and give one serious nod into the camera when someone said “synergy.” It was a modest plan, almost therapeutic.

But one minute before the call, her neighbor’s cat flopped onto the keyboard. Marina sometimes agreed to watch him “for half an hour.” Half an hour, like corporate deadlines, turned out to be mostly decorative. The cat hit the raise-hand button, turned on a little fire reaction, and somehow changed her display name to “Marina Final_v2_REAL.” Her manager saw the raised hand and said brightly, “Marina, perfect, walk us through the update.” Startled, she accidentally switched on a filter that gave her enormous mustaches.

Trying to turn it off quickly, Marina yanked the mouse, clipped her mug, and sent coffee across her notebook. The notebook fell straight onto the space bar. Her microphone came alive and began broadcasting a rhythmic “pff-pff-pff,” like a very tired steam engine had joined the team. Her manager decided this was a new signal for technical risk and asked everyone to “capture it in their notes.” While her coworkers dutifully wrote down the steam engine, the cat pressed share screen and displayed Marina’s spreadsheet, where she privately marked priorities in three colors: green, yellow, and “oh no.”

That, somehow, saved everyone. People became so sincerely interested in the “oh no” column that for the first time in six months, the meeting turned useful. By the end of the call, the team had already reassigned tasks, and her manager said Marina had “bravely brought humanity into the process.” Now at every status call, people ask her to “show that color system.” The cat, unfortunately, still attends too. He sits by the laptop like middle management, waiting for his moment.