The company I used to work for (not the show itself, but the much smaller company that technically employed me) has hired me for the week to clean out their old offices, which were basically unused by more than one person for over two years.
They’re selling much of the old furniture to the incoming tenants, but they’ve decided not to store any of the remnants, so they’re giving away what they couldn’t convince the new kids to take.
I scored a very nice lamp, which will now bring light to my attempts to read on the couch, and a great overstuffed chair that conveniently matches the color of the couch.
There’s only one minor issue: The chair has been sat upon by two dogs in the fairly recent past, a pug belonging to my former employers and a husky/Aussie shephard mix belonging to another employee.
This was slightly concerning, since I know Chaplin doesn’t get along very well with other animals (this is a large part of why I have him in the first place: while he’s a sweet kitty on his own, he didn’t get along with his previous owner’s other pets).
After I dragged the chair into my apartment this evening, Chaplin flipped a bit, sniffing and scratching and scratching and sniffing at it, and seemingly generally concerned.
At least he was until he decided to bury himself in the chair, working his own little groove into the seat. It’ll be covered in cat hair in no time.
And that’s when I’ll know that the chair is definitely mine, since the defining characteristic of about 90% of what I own is that it’s covered in cat hair.