Monday
Arrived at 8:15. The first claim of the week involved a lamp, a rug and a very confident ginger cat. I knelt down to measure the distance between the lamp and the rug. The cat knelt too, in the sense that she sat directly on my notes. We both stared at the lamp. I wrote “inconclusive” and she purred.
Tuesday
A flowerpot, a window ledge and a fear of heights. The policyholder insisted that his cat was afraid of the ledge and would never go near it. I found paw prints on the ledge, in dust, in a pattern that formed what looked very much like a signature. I took a photograph and was asked not to be dramatic.
Wednesday
Lunch was a sardine sandwich, which I ate at my desk while a colleague named Thimble asked if I was going to finish it. I was not. I do not believe a case has ever been solved without a sardine sandwich nearby.
Thursday
I attended a household in which every object on the lowest shelf had been moved, one centimetre at a time, over six weeks. The owner called this “a pattern.” I called it “a patient cat.” We agreed to call it Loss 17 and move on.
Friday
A quiet day. Only one claim, for a glass of wine and a cat who did not drink wine, but who did appear to be enjoying the aftermath. I filed the report under “mild and fragrant.”
Saturday and Sunday
The Bureau is closed at weekends, in theory. In practice, I spent both days looking at my own mug, which sat on the edge of my desk at home, placed there by someone who I now think was me. I moved it back by six centimetres. It remained there for an hour. Then the cat came in.
A thought for the week
Every loss has a story, and every story has a cat in it. Our job is not to blame the cat. It is to write down, in tidy handwriting, that we know exactly who did it.
Sunday evening, a postscript
Having re read this diary, I note with some alarm that I have written very little about the actual assessing. This is because the assessing is quite short. One arrives, one looks, one measures, one writes the word “cat.” The rest of the week is waiting, snacks, small talk and a growing feeling that the shelf is watching.
Things I carry in my bag
- A tape measure, silver, which cats love to chase and I love to retrieve.
- A magnifying glass, used mostly for looking at paw prints but sometimes for looking at nothing in a thoughtful way.
- A notebook, stained with tea and the occasional fishy thumbprint.
- A spare notebook, for the notes the first notebook was sat on.
- A small bag of treats, for bribery, diplomacy and morale.
A recurring problem
Every second claim contains the sentence “she has never done this before.” I have heard it so often that I have it embroidered on a cushion. In my experience, a cat who has never done something before is a cat who is about to start. The phrase is not a defence but a forecast.
Rules I have learned
First, never stand directly under the item in question. Second, never stand directly behind the cat. Third, never agree to hold the cat’s tail for her while she thinks. Fourth, if a cat looks at you and then at a glass, step back with the grace of someone who has made the right call.
What I would tell my younger self
Work gets easier, but not by much. The vases do not become any less fragile, and the cats do not become any less certain. One simply learns to bring a thermos, and a second sandwich, and a quiet feeling of respect for a profession that has the cat as its central figure and the floor as its main character.
Final thoughts
If you are ever in doubt, remember that I am always here, in my small grey coat, writing the word cat in a neat hand. It is a job, and it is a calling. It is also, I admit, a great deal of fun.
