Every town has them. The vet office cat who slinks around like a mob boss. The library cat curled up on the biographies, silently judging you for checking out a romance novel. The shop cat who “greets” customers by staring directly through them.  They’re not pets. They’re employees. Unpaid, untrained, irreplaceable. And unlike your human coworkers, they can’t be fired. A working cat doesn’t apply for the job—it just shows up, clocks in with a nap, and dares anyone to argue. At the vet, they’re emotional support for nervous owners—and psychological warfare for the dogs trembling in plastic carriers. Dogs come in wagging their tails, leave with their dignity in tatters because Mr. Whiskers stared at them like a loan shark. “Nice kneecaps, shame if something happened.” In libraries, they’re mascots and archivists, curling up on open dictionaries like living punctuation. They are scholars of dust and silence, connoisseurs of sun-warmed windowsills. Patrons think they’re sweet. T...