Position Filled? I Ran a Formal Hiring Process for the Fuzzy Deadweight Sleeping on My Face

Every morning, I wake up, make coffee, answer emails, do laundry, and keep a small mammal alive. That small mammal is Biscuit, a 13-pound orange tabby who has never once contributed to the household economy. He doesn't pay rent. He doesn't do dishes. Last week he screamed at a wall for eleven minutes.

So I decided to formalize things. If Biscuit wants to keep living here, he can apply for the open position of Emotional Support Roommate (unpaid, remote, benefits negotiable). What follows is a complete, unbiased hiring process conducted entirely by me, the only stakeholder, who is definitely not biased.

The Resume: A Work of Fiction

Biscuit submitted his application via the traditional method of sitting on the printed document. After careful extraction, I was able to review his qualifications:

• 2019–present: Resident, this apartment (title: "the boss")
• Core competencies: Napping (18+ hrs/day, expert level), strategic glass relocation, aggressive blinking as a communication tool
• Key achievement: "Knocked a full glass of water off the counter (strategic)" — when asked to elaborate, he groomed himself
• Skills: Screaming at 4:47 AM, judging me, fitting into boxes that legally should not fit him
• References: Available upon request (he ate two of them)

His cover letter was a hairball. Frankly, more coherent than most LinkedIn messages I've received.

The Interview: One Party Was Not Engaged

I scheduled the interview for 2 PM Saturday. Biscuit arrived eleven minutes late, which I respected, because it showed he had other meetings.

Q: Where do you see yourself in five years? A: He stared at my hand, then bit it. A classic "take this job and shove it" move, or possibly affection. With cats, the line between passion and violence is a mood.

Q: What's your greatest weakness? A: He walked directly into the corner of the coffee table and pretended it didn't happen. Honesty: 10/10. Self-awareness: pending.

Q: Why do you want this position? A: He left the room. Then came back. Then left again. Then screamed at the closed door. Relatable, honestly. That's every job interview I've ever been in.

Checking References: The Vet Has Thoughts

I called Dr. Patel at the animal clinic, Biscuit's listed reference and the only licensed professional who has ever evaluated him.

Her exact words: "He's healthy. He's also the only patient who has ever hissed at the scale. The scale does not hiss back, Biscuit."

When I asked if she'd describe him as an emotional support animal, there was a long pause, and she said, "He supports himself. Emotionally. Constantly. You're more of a... benefactor."

I'm counting that as a strong maybe.

The Performance Review: 90 Days of Nothing

Since Biscuit has technically been employed here for six years, I conducted a retroactive performance review.

Attendance: Exceeds expectations. He has never once left the couch for longer than a food-related errand.

Productivity: In 90 days of observation, Biscuit produced one (1) hairball, located in my shoe. Deliverable received. Poorly.

Teamwork: When I cried during a rerun of The Office, he sat on my chest and purred. Then he stepped directly on my trachea. Net emotional support: positive, with casualties.

Overall rating: 3 out of 5 stars. Would be higher, but he has never once acknowledged the vacuum cleaner's apology.

Salary Negotiations: He Wanted Treats, I Wanted Dignity

Biscuit's agent (also Biscuit, in a different room) demanded compensation in the following forms: Churu treats, unlimited, forever; access to the top of the refrigerator; and a formal apology to the red dot, which he has never caught and blames me for.

I countered with kibble and a warm lap. He countered by knocking my phone off the nightstand. We settled on Churu three times a week and the refrigerator thing, which he already had and I just made official.

Total cost of employment: approximately $40/month. Total output: vibes. In this economy? Honestly, a fair deal.

The Final Verdict

After a rigorous, scientific, completely fair process that I definitely didn't rig, the hiring committee (me, in a blazer I already owned) has reached a decision.

The position is filled.

Biscuit brings nothing to the table — in fact, he removes things from tables — but when I had the flu in February, he slept next to me for three days without moving, and no Petfinder listing can match that kind of loyalty. He is, against all evidence and Dr. Patel's mild concern, good at the one job that matters: making a house feel less empty.

He will not be notified of his hiring. He's asleep on my keyboard, which is his way of signing the offer letter.

FunChoke was not compensated for this article, though Biscuit was compensated in treats and is already demanding a raise.