Las Vegas, Nevada…
“He’ll be with you in just a minute,” Ellen says.
I nod mutely, sitting down in one of the white leather swivel seats outside my dad’s office. I’m still a bit tired from my Florida-Las Vegas flight, but I came straight to his office from the airport anyway.
This can’t wait.
I cast a look around, my gaze stopping on the mosaic white tile floor that probably cost the same as six months of my salary. I’ll never get used to this white glossy building.
Back when I was a teenager and we’d come up with the idea for Kitty Kat Kibble, Dad had worked out of a rundown old office complex.
He didn’t even have a receptionist at the beginning. When he finally hired one, it was a kind, frizzy-haired woman named Martha. We’d swap cat stories while munching on donuts and waiting for my dad to get out of meetings.
In the past few years, thanks to our marketing efforts, Kitty Kat Kibble has exploded. Dad invested most of the money we’ve made back into the business and moved our headquarters to this tall office building in downtown Las Vegas.
He bought modern furniture and hired a younger receptionist too. I’ve never told him that she reminds me of a blonde vampire. Her skin looks too fair to have ever been touched by sunlight. Her long, thin blonde hair is colorless, and she wears only white, although that may be per my dad’s instructions. I’ve wondered if he chose her to match the décor.
These days, I don’t get to see much of him, outside of business. He’s always too busy. And truth be told, I think we’re both afraid of what might come up in a casual conversation.
“Summer?”
Dad is standing in the open doorway. He gives me a tense smile. He’s probably been in meetings all day.
I walk into his office and close the door behind me. I sit in another one of those white leather swivel chairs and can’t help but pity the poor cleaning lady who maintains the pure white pristineness of the office.
“You wanted to see me," Dad says, cutting to the chase immediately, "What is it?"
I swallow back a pang of disappointment. That's my dad for you. No hugs or catching up on our lives.
Business is his life now.
Even the dinners we go on together are always with a potential partner or person of influence we want to bring into our circle to help the business.
“I went to the race,” I tell him, “I met the racecar driver, Johnny Jones.”
“And what did you think of him?” Dad asks.
He stops talking and his eyes suddenly light up. I notice he’s looking past me, over my shoulder.
I turn around to see Isabella walking along the marble windowsill. The white puffy Persian cat is Dad’s one weakness.
“Will you look at the regal way she struts around,” he says with a little chuckle. “She knows who owns this place.”
And he’s right.
Isabella is the only one who’s allowed free-reign, and all-access to Dad. Whether he’s in a meeting, in the bathroom, or even trying to sleep, Dad doesn’t mind taking a minute or thirty to give Isabella the attention she demands.
It’s even more weird when you consider that Isabella is named after my mom, who my dad divorced years ago. He would’ve changed the cat’s name, only Isabella was brutally defensive of her title.
So, Isabella the princess cat she remains.
“So yes, about Johnny Jones,” Dad says, his gaze returning to me. “What about him?”
“I think we might have to rethink the business deal you just swung. To say that Johnny is unhappy about it would be a grave understatement. He apparently finds offense with our brand and point-blank refused to wear the logo t-shirt.”
“I wouldn’t be too concerned about it,” Dad says, in a tone that indicates he heard about ten percent of what I said.
“Why not?”
“There’s more that I didn’t tell you about your role working with Johnny.”
“Like what?”
“His antics and bad boy behavior,” Dad says. “While some of them, namely his autographing sprees and paparazzi stunts, are more than welcome, others are not.”
“What exactly are you saying?” I ask carefully.
“We’re a cat food company,” he says. “We have a reputation to maintain. We can’t have him dancing around with half-naked models and partying at all hours. His Instagram feed is like a handbook for bad boy behavior. He posts everything.”
“You want me to babysit him?” I conclude in a low voice.
“Not babysit. Just try to encourage him to tone it down. Also, you need to take control of his social media from him. It’s a mess.”
Dad waves his hand, as if getting a notoriously wild racecar driver to behave like a nun is as simple as that.
“Did you even hear a word I said?” I ask him quietly.
Irritation flickers in his cool blue eyes.
“Of course I did,” he says haughtily. “Just because Johnny wasn’t immediately sympathetic to our company doesn’t mean he can’t be turned around. Just use a little of that old Stanley charm I taught you.”
Clearly, now wouldn’t be the time to mention that Johnny’s lack of sympathy to our company almost had us shouting at each other.
“Dad,” I say, “You haven’t met Johnny. I have. I don’t think you realize the kind of a stubborn man we are dealing with here.”
Dad rises to his feet, shoving his hands in his white suit pockets.
“Yes, I do. Johnny Jones is a star and expects to be treated like one. Which we will do.”
He shoots me a warning look.
“We’ll take him out on the town, show him a good time. Convince him that it would be in his best interest to work closely with us. It’s not like he has a choice really. Working closely with his sponsor, whomever that might be, is part of the terms of his driver’s contract. That’s why you shouldn’t be too concerned. Legally he works for us.”
The way Dad is walking around, hands clasped behind his back, face alight with his own words, I can tell there’s no reasoning with him like this. Once Dad’s mind is made up, he can be stubborn and unreasonable.
“We have the cat expo soon,” I point out. “If he refuses to promote there, what do you suggest I do?”
Dad pauses in front of the white filing cabinet Isabella has moved onto. Giving her a long caress, he throws his exasperated words over his shoulder.
“I don’t know, you’re the Vice President of marketing,” he snaps. “Be creative.”
Scooping up Isabelle and holding the furry lump in his hands, he frowns at me.
“Don’t make me sorry that I turned this project over to you. If you’re not up to the job, I’m sure someone else can do it.”
His words cut me deeply. I freeze, shocked.
I’ve been working here for years. I can’t believe he would make a comment like that over one issue.
What exactly have I been doing except dedicating myself twenty-four hours a day to this company? Who has been hitting the social media ad campaigns every day? Who shows up for every teeny-tiny insignificant pet food event, with a bright smile and convincing words?
And then for Dad to go and suggest that I’m not adequately dedicated to our cause, just because I can’t do the impossible?
I open my mouth, then close it.
Dad’s contented gaze is in the furry depths of Isabella’s fur. I know how he can get in arguments. I saw them often enough between him and my Mom, before they split up.
“Fine,” I say simply, striding away, my mouth set in a grim line. “I’ll take care of it.”
And I will.
I’ll make this sponsorship thing with Johnny Jones work. I’ve spent too much time and effort in this company for it not to.
An hour later after being stuck in Las Vegas’s famous traffic, I’m back in my own condo.
My cat, Alice comes trotting up to greet me, meowing happily. I scratch her head, then collapse in the closest chair.
When my hand touches a chunk of white fur under me, I sigh. Time after time, I forget this chair is also Alice’s favorite. And what I just picked up is only part of the nest she forms every week on the black cushions.
As Alice meanders to the table, pink nose held high in the air, I place the fur ball on a nearby high shelf, out of reach. Alice’s second-favorite thing to do is to eat her own fur and then, a few hours later, barf it up in some inconvenient spot. The current spot is under my pillow.
Alice hops up on my lap, and I stroke her contentedly. If no one had told me, I would’ve never believed that Alice and Isabella came from the same litter.
While Isabella’s snow-white mane is perpetually well-kept and glossy, Alice’s is often matted from whatever water she was trying to clean herself with, with missing patches from her kittenhood.
While Isabella is a demanding unwavering princess, Alice is an affectionate, albeit nervous cat.
Dad and I figure it’s from their younger years spent with their first owner who was an art school hipster. Alice ran away and somehow survived a year on Vegas’s unforgiving streets, before returning to the nice and safe home Isabella had enjoyed the whole time.
When the owner gave the two Persian cats to us before moving to Europe, he insisted we take both.
“Package deal,” he’d said stubbornly.
He had good reason too.
While Isabella was easy to fawn over, with her prim and prissy demeanor, Alice was another story. Back then, she was even worse.
She would eat only part of her food, then refuse to eat the remainder. Every night was spent pacing and meowing. She had missing whiskers, bare fur patches, a chipped front fang, and an ear that looked like another cat had taken a bite out of it. She was nervous and hid at the first sign of every new person.
I scratch behind Alice’s slightly bald ears, and she purrs happily. Alice is a handful still to this day. But after a few years of loving care, she’s doing better.
Our organic cat food had a lot to do with her improvement. I experienced firsthand what a great diet could do to improve a cat’s health. After a few months on our food, her fur began to grow back until it shown. Her numerous allergies went away, and her appetite was restored.
I believe in our company and I want other cat owners to know about it too. For me, it’s not just about the money or the corporate stockholders. I know what our product can do for cats.
If I need to charm Mr. Johnny Jones to bring him into line, then that’s what I’ll do.