In late July 1980 a MOW crew was unloading supplies from a freight car when
an large but emaciated grey cat jumped out. Feebly struggling to escape,
the crew caught the obviously dehydrated cat (the car had been sealed a
week before) and brought him inside the ops building to give him water and
anything laying around that he would recognize as food.

Fast forward a week. The beautiful young orange and white cat (the grey was
oil and dirt) had endured a trip to the vet paid for by --literally--
passing a hat. At the urging of most of the staff, he was employed in the
building as a "Rodent Control Technician". The young middle manager who
consented to that request had a few sleepless nights wondering if that was
an appropriate alternative to a sorely needed commercial pest control
service. (Many years later that decision would be remembered by a couple of
union officials just in time to break the tension during "sensitive" labor
negotiations.) About four months after he joined us we noticed that the
gnawing sounds in the walls had stopped, his appetite had grossly increased
and he no longer spent all of his nights in the basement. One year, the
receptionist actually listed him in the division phone book.

Hobo prospered until September of 2002. That is a longer life than cats are
supposed to have. During the last week of his life, he was never alone --
day or night. Hobo was a big part of all of our lives. More than once I
invited him into my office to hear thorny issues and he always listened
well. Almost all of us in the building had done that at one time or
another. We could write volumes about that cat. He outlived half of his
human friends. He was there during wedding and baby showers, promotion and
retirement parties and memorials. He was also there when each of us
experienced our personal losses and sorrows. Although a nusiance at times,
we all considered him a part of our lives and an essential part of the
workplace. He had the run of most of the building.

The old track where he was found is now a patio for a trendy restaurant. My
old office is now a condo, having moved from that wonderful century old
building to a new plastic, steel and glass structure a few years ago. I am
retiring soon. I took a day off so that my trophy wife of 40+ years and I
could look for a smaller place with a nice view of something. She
remembered that this was close to the day Hobo died five years ago. We
drove to the Pet Cemetary where he rests in a tiny plot that had been paid
for by one of the union officials. I bought a single red rose to put on his
plot. I often kept one on my desk and he loved to sniff the roses.

To my surprise, the plot stood out because someone had paid special
attention to it. There were no less than three small but fresh boquets
laying on the plot. After being gone five years, that is a compliment which
any human would be pleased to receive.