“Late again!” In three minutes, she jumps into the shower, does her makeup, throws on her coat and boots, and rushes for the elevator.
“Oh my God, I’m so late!” Marta López jolted awake, barely enough time to become a whirlwind of efficiency. In just three minutes, she managed the impossibleslapping on makeup haphazardly, tugging on her coat and boots, and dashing for the elevator, all while cursing her alarm clock for betraying her.
The Madrid street greeted her with drizzle typical of September, but Marta had no time for umbrellas or hesitation. Missing the bus meant facing Don Antonio, her boss, a man whose tolerance for tardiness was as thin as a bulls patience mid-charge. In his world, one minute late meant an epic scolding and muttered threats of “staff adjustments.”
As she ran, she mentally said goodbye to her Christmas bonus, her pending day off, and even her ten oclock coffee break with coworkers. The crowd around her, equally stressed, resembled a parade of zombies clutching umbrellas. Even the sky had turned dramatic, as if joining the chaos.
Two hundred meters from the stop, Marta skidded to a halt. By a worn-out bench, a drenched kitten tried to meow, but only managed a sound like a screeching violin. “Do I keep going or help?” she thought. She knew Don Antonio would scorch her with his glarebut leave this shivering fluffball behind? No way.
As she got closer, she noticed the kitten limping. “Oh God, who did this to you, sweetie?” Without hesitation, she wrapped it in her (now ruined) white scarf and took off running, this time with an extra passenger. “Worst case, if I get fired, at least I keep the cat,” she reasoned.
Her plan to slip quietly into the office failed. Just as she turned the corner, she collided with Don Antonio, who stood arms crossed, scowling. “López! What time do you call this? Or do we work whenever we feel like it now?” Trembling, Marta opened her coat slightly. The kitten peeked out with a pitiful “meow.”
“He was hurt, Don Antonio. I couldn’t leave him,” she stammered, tears and snot mixing. She was already picturing packing her desk when, unexpectedly, her boss 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, “Take today and tomorrow off. And good job with the kitten.”
At the clinic, the vet, a kind man with a grandfatherly air, revealed the kitten only had a sprain. “I knew Don Antonio as a boy,” he chuckled. “Hed drag dogs out of gutters and fight kids who messed with cats. Now he donates half his salary to shelters, but with people well, since his family thing, you know.”
That night, with the kitten (now named “Pepito”) purring in her lap, Marta got a call. “Hows our patient?” asked Don Antonio. They ended up having dinner, talking about animals until the waiter kicked them out.
And so, between pet rescues and shared coffees, Marta learned even the toughest bosses hide a soft heart. And Pepito? He never had to shiver in the cold again.
