A man in Ohio has reportedly surrendered his entire career trajectory to a 14-pound tabby named Biscuit, who has spent the last six weeks parked directly on top of a MacBook like a furry paperweight with a superiority complex.
The situation escalated Tuesday when Dave Kowalski, 41, announced on a Zoom call that Biscuit had been "promoted to Regional Manager of Warm Surfaces" and would henceforth be cc'd on all emails.
Coworkers say they initially found it charming.
Now Biscuit attends every meeting, contributes nothing, and somehow has better attendance than half the sales team.
The cat's rise to power follows a familiar pattern.
First he sat on the keyboard during a performance review.
Then he deleted a spreadsheet with one well-placed paw.
By week three, he had a LinkedIn profile and 400 followers.
Dave's wife, Karen, has started referring to the couch as "Biscuit's annex" and the printer as "a hostile foreign government." Experts in feline workplace dynamics—yes, that's apparently a thing now—say this is less about the cat and more about us. "Cats don't care about your deliverables," said one behaviorist who asked not to be named because Biscuit once hissed at her. "They care about warmth and control.
Honestly, that's most middle managers too." The internet, naturally, has responded with the emotional depth of a puddle.
A TikTok of Biscuit blocking a client presentation has 4.2 million views.
The top comment reads: "He's not blocking the camera, he's reviewing the pitch." Another simply says, "This is the only CEO I trust." Dave says he's tried everything.
A cardboard box placed strategically to the left.
Biscuit has rejected all of it with the quiet dignity of a tenured professor who has seen your syllabus and is not impressed. "He doesn't want the warm thing," Dave told reporters, visibly exhausted. "He wants the thing I'm using.
That's different." The situation has created real friction at home.
Dave's actual boss has started ending meetings with "give Biscuit my best," which sounds supportive until you realize it's a threat.
Karen has threatened to unplug the router, a move Biscuit would likely interpret as a declaration of war.
The dog, a golden retriever named Kevin, has reportedly stopped making eye contact with anyone.
Sources close to the cat describe his mood as "smug but rested." He has no plans to step down.
He has, however, agreed to a photo op in exchange for salmon.
Corporate America, always eager to monetize chaos, has already reached out.
A startup wants him as a "Chief Vibes Officer." Dave's employer, a mid-sized insurance firm, is considering a "bring your cat to work" policy that everyone knows is just an excuse to get Biscuit on the org chart.
As of press time, Biscuit was asleep on Dave's tax documents, purring at a volume that can only be described as "legally binding." Dave has stopped fighting it.
He now schedules his day around the cat's naps, which run roughly 9 a.m. to 4 p.m. with a brief intermission for staring out the window at a bird he will never catch.
The moral of this story is simple and mildly depressing.
You can buy all the productivity gadgets you want.
But if a cat decides your laptop is his throne, you're not the main character anymore.
Final Thoughts
You're the IT guy, and the meeting has been rescheduled.