“Running late! In three minutes, she dashed into the bathroom, slapped on makeup, threw on her coat and boots, then bolted for the elevator.
‘Good grief, I’m late!’ Marta López sprang awake with just enough time to become a whirlwind of efficiency. In barely three minutes, she achieved the impossible: smeared on makeup, wrestled into her coat and boots, and raced for the elevatorall while cursing her alarm clock for its betrayal.
The Madrid streets greeted her with a drizzly September morning, but Marta had no time for umbrellas or hesitation. Missing the bus meant facing Don Antonio, her boss, a man whose tolerance for tardiness matched a bulls patience mid-charge. One minute late in his world meant an epic scolding and muttered threats about ‘adjusting staffing levels.’
As she ran, she mentally said goodbye to her Christmas bonus, her pending day off, even her 10 a.m. coffee break with coworkers. The people around her, equally stressed, looked like a parade of zombie commuters clutching umbrellas. Even the sky seemed dramatic, as if joining in on the chaos.
Two hundred meters from the bus stop, Marta skidded to a halt. By a weather-beaten bench, a soaked kitten tried to meow, but only managed a sound like a screechy violin. ‘Do I keep going or help?’ she wondered. She knew Don Antonio would skewer her with a glarebut leave this shivering furball? No way.
As she got closer, she saw the little thing limping. ‘Oh no, sweetheart, who did this to you?’ Without a second thought, she bundled it into her scarf (white, now ruined) and took off running, this time with an extra passenger. ‘If I get fired, at least Ill keep the cat,’ she reasoned.
Her plan to sneak unnoticed into the office failed. The second she rounded the hallway, she collided with Don Antonioarms crossed, brow furrowed. ‘López! What time do you call this? Or do we only work when it suits us now?’ Trembling, Marta opened her coat slightly. The kitten poked its head out and let out a pitiful *meow*.
‘He was hurt, Don Antonio. I couldnt leave him,’ she stammered, tears and snot included. She already pictured packing her deskuntil her boss unexpectedly pulled out a slip of paper and scribbled an address. ‘Take him to this clinic. Now. And dont come back today.’
Marta stared, convinced it was the enduntil Don Antonio added, ‘Today and tomorrow are your days off. And this kitten business well done.’
At the clinic, the vet, a kindly grandfatherly man, revealed the kitten only had a sprain. ‘I knew Don Antonio as a boy,’ he chuckled. ‘He used to rescue dogs from gutters and fight kids who messed with cats. Now he donates half his salary to shelters, but with people well, after what happened with his family, you know.’
That evening, with the kitten (now named ‘Pepito’) purring in her lap, Marta got a call. ‘Hows the patient?’ Don Antonio asked. They ended up having dinner together, talking animals until the waiter kicked them out.
And so, between pet rescues and shared coffees, Marta learned even the grumpiest bosses hide a soft heart. As for Pepito? He never felt the cold again.”
