Let me tell you something about HR. After ten years in this business, I thought I had seen it all. So, when Sheri walked into my office last Tuesday morning with that particular look on her face, the one that says, “I have a problem and I’m making it your problem”, I knew my day was about to get interesting.

“Greta,” she said, closing the door behind her with the kind of deliberate slowness that suggested she was practicing her dramatic entrance. “We have a situation.”

I looked up from my computer, where I’d been reviewing the thrilling new updates to our bereavement leave policy. “Good morning to you too, Sheri. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“No, thank you.” She sat down across from me and folded her hands in her lap like she was about to deliver news of a terminal diagnosis. “It’s about Jennifer.”

Jennifer. Sweet, quiet Jennifer from Accounting, who still jumped a little every time someone said her name. The woman who’d been through hell the past year after losing Janice, her partner of fifteen years. My mental HR rolodex immediately started spinning. Had someone said something inappropriate? Was there a performance issue? Please, for the love of all that is holy, don’t let it be another workplace romance gone wrong.

“What about Jennifer?” I asked, adopting my most professional HR voice, which I like to think of as “concerned kindergarten teacher meets corporate attorney.”

Sheri leaned forward conspiratorially. “She brought a cat to work.”

I waited. Surely there was more. There wasn’t.

“A cat,” I repeated.

“A cat,” Sheri confirmed, nodding solemnly as if she’d just informed me that Jennifer had brought a small nuclear device to the office.

I took a sip of my coffee, which had gone cold approximately forty-five minutes ago, much like my enthusiasm for this conversation. “Okay. And what kind of cat are we talking about here? Like, is it feral? Is it disrupting meetings? Is it attacking people?” Because honestly, I’ve met some employees who could use a good attacking.

“It’s a Persian,” Sheri said. “A very fluffy Persian. Named Oscar.”

“Oscar,” I said.

“Oscar,” she confirmed.

We sat there for a moment in what I can only describe as the kind of silence that happens when two people are trying to figure out if they’re having the same conversation.

“Sheri,” I said finally, employing my legendary patience, which had been honed over a decade of explaining the same HR policies to the same people who never read their emails. “I’m going to need a little more context here. Is Oscar causing problems?”

“Well, no. Not exactly. He mostly just sleeps. On Jennifer’s desk. In a little bed she brought. He’s actually quite peaceful.” Sheri paused, and I could see her searching for the problem she’d come to report. “But Marcus and Donna came to me this morning, separately, mind you, within fifteen minutes of each other, which I found suspicious, and they both claim they’re allergic to cats.”

Ah. There it was. The actual issue had finally crawled out from behind the fluffy Persian curtain.

“Are they actually allergic, or are they ‘allergic’?” I made air quotes, because after ten years in HR, I’ve learned that there’s a significant difference between medical conditions and convenient medical conditions.

Sheri shrugged with the kind of elaborate nonchalance that suggested she didn’t want to have an opinion because having an opinion might require her to do something about it. “I don’t know. They were sneezing a lot. Or Donna was. Marcus was more just standing there looking aggrieved, which is kind of his default state anyway.”

Marcus. Of course. The man who’d once filed a complaint because someone microwaved fish on a Friday and he felt it violated his “right to a pleasant work environment.” The man who’d sent me a three-page email about the “aggressive temperature” of the office thermostat. Marcus, who I was ninety percent sure, just enjoyed complaining about things as a hobby.

“Has Jennifer provided any documentation for the cat?” I asked, already pulling up my mental file of emotional support animal policies, which was unfortunately much thicker than it had been five years ago.

“She emailed me something this morning.” Sheri pulled out her phone and squinted at it like she was deciphering ancient hieroglyphics. “It’s from her therapist. Says Oscar is a medically necessary emotional support animal for her anxiety and depression, particularly following her recent loss.”

And there it was. The thing that made this whole situation exponentially more complicated. Because Jennifer wasn’t just bringing a cat to work because she liked cats or because Oscar was lonely at home. She was bringing Oscar because she’d lost Janice, and the world had become a scary place, and apparently Oscar was one of the few things that made the office bearable.

I felt my heart do that inconvenient thing where it tries to feel empathy, which is generally counterproductive in HR. You have to care about people, sure, but you also have to care about policy, and productivity, and the fact that Marcus’s potential allergies were just as valid as Jennifer’s mental health, even if Marcus himself was insufferable.

“Okay,” I said, pulling up a blank document on my computer. “Let’s walk through this. Jennifer has documentation for an emotional support animal. Do we have documentation for Marcus and Donna’s allergies?”

“I didn’t ask,” Sheri admitted. “I was hoping you would handle that part.”

Of course she was. Because Sheri, bless her heart, had perfected the art of managing by delegation, which in her case meant delegating anything that required actual managing. I didn’t entirely blame her. The team didn’t particularly like her, though I could never figure out exactly why. She was nice enough. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe she was too nice, the kind of nice that comes across as spineless, the kind of nice that makes people smell blood in the water.

“Alright,” I said, because what else was I going to say? This was literally my job. “I’ll look into it. In the meantime, has Oscar actually caused any disruptions? Is he loud? Destructive? Is he bothering people?”

“He’s been here three hours and I don’t think he’s moved once,” Sheri said. “He’s just this giant ball of fluff on Jennifer’s desk. Honestly, he looks like a very expensive throw pillow.”

I made a note on my computer: “Oscar: fluffy. Possibly throw pillow. Investigate.”

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” I said, switching into what my husband calls my “HR Captain Mode,” which is when I start making decisive statements and people feel compelled to agree with me. “I’m going to go talk to Jennifer and see the situation for myself. Then I’m going to have Marcus and Donna provide medical documentation of their allergies. We’ll need to do a reasonable accommodation analysis and see if there’s a way to accommodate everyone.”

Sheri looked relieved. “So you’ll handle it?”

“I’ll handle it,” I confirmed, wondering not for the first time why I’d chosen this career path. I could have been a veterinarian. I liked animals. They didn’t file complaints about each other. Well, they probably did, but at least they couldn’t email about it.

After Sheri left, I sat at my desk for a moment, staring at my now-empty coffee cup and contemplating the absurdity of corporate life. Somewhere in this building, there was a woman trying to survive her grief with the help of a sleepy cat, and there were two other people who may or may not be allergic to said cat, and somehow it was my job to make everyone happy. This was not covered in my graduate program.

I stood up, grabbed my notebook, because I’ve learned that carrying a notebook makes you look official and purposeful, and headed down to the third floor where Jennifer’s desk was located.

The Accounting department at Baldurs Inc. was exactly what you’d expect from an Accounting department: rows of cubicles, the soft clicking of keyboards, the occasional sigh of someone discovering a spreadsheet error, and the persistent smell of old coffee and new anxiety. Jennifer’s cubicle was in the back corner, which I’d always thought was either the best spot or the worst spot, depending on whether you liked privacy or felt abandoned.

As I approached, I could hear low voices, and I realized Jennifer had visitors. I slowed my walk, because eavesdropping isn’t technically against HR policy when you’re trying to assess a workplace situation. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

“But he’s so soft!” a woman was saying. It sounded like Patty from Accounts Payable. “Can I pet him?”

“Oh, um, sure,” came Jennifer’s voice, quiet and hesitant, like she was surprised anyone wanted to talk to her at all. “He likes chin scratches.”

I rounded the corner and there it was: the scene of the alleged crime. Jennifer’s cubicle had been transformed into what could only be described as a cat sanctuary. There was a plush bed on her desk, and in that bed was the most magnificently fluffy Persian cat I’d ever seen. Oscar was white with gray points, and he looked like someone had taken a cloud, given it a face, and taught it how to nap professionally.

Patty was indeed scratching Oscar’s chin, while two other employees, I recognized them as Sylvia and Tom from Accounts Receivable, were standing nearby with the kind of expressions people get when they see a particularly cute baby.

“He’s so calm,” Tom was saying. “My cat would be freaking out.”

“Oscar’s always calm,” Jennifer said, and I could hear a softness in her voice that I hadn’t heard in months. “He’s a very good boy.”

I cleared my throat, and all four of them jumped a little. Jennifer’s face went pale, and I immediately felt like the villain in a Pixar movie.

“Jennifer,” I said, trying to sound friendly rather than officious. “Do you have a minute to chat?”

The two visitors scattered immediately, mumbling excuses about expense reports. Patty gave Oscar one last pat before disappearing around a cubicle wall. Jennifer stood up, wringing her hands.

“Is this about Oscar?” she asked in a small voice. “Sheri said it was okay. I have a letter from my doctor. Well, my therapist. I can get one from my doctor too if you need it. I’m sorry, I know it’s unusual, but after Janice, I just…” She stopped, looking like she might cry.

“Hey, it’s okay,” I said quickly, holding up my hands in what I hoped was a calming gesture. “You’re not in trouble. I just need to understand the situation. Can I sit?”

She nodded, and I pulled over a chair from an empty cubicle. Oscar, apparently unbothered by the presence of HR, continued sleeping peacefully. His breathing made his entire body rise and fall gently, like a very fluffy bellows.

“So, this is Oscar,” I said, stating the obvious because sometimes that’s how you start difficult conversations.

“Yes,” Jennifer said, sitting back down in her own chair. “He’s three years old. He’s a retired show cat. Very gentle. He doesn’t make noise or scratch things. He just sleeps mostly. He’s been helping me with my anxiety.”

I could see the letter from her therapist on her desk, neatly printed out and placed in a folder. Jennifer was nothing if not prepared. The letter outlined her diagnosis, the role Oscar played in managing her symptoms, and a recommendation that Oscar be permitted as a workplace accommodation. It was thorough, professional, and absolutely legitimate.

“I’ve reviewed your documentation,” I said, “and everything looks in order. However, I need to be transparent with you. We’ve received concerns from a couple of employees about cat allergies.”

Jennifer’s face crumpled. “Oh no. I didn’t think, I mean, I asked Sheri, and she said she’d check, and I thought it would be okay.”

“It might still be okay,” I said quickly. “We’re working through the process. I need to gather more information about the allergies and see if there are accommodations, we can make that work for everyone. Have you noticed anyone having reactions?”

“Donna sneezed near my desk this morning,” Jennifer admitted. “But she also said she was getting a cold. And Marcus came by and said something about his eyes itching, but he didn’t actually go near Oscar. He just stood by the entrance to my cubicle and made an announcement about it.”

That sounded like Marcus. The man probably complained about the theoretical possibility of weather.

“Has Oscar interacted with anyone besides you?” I asked.

“A few people have come by to say hello,” Jennifer said. “Everyone’s been really nice about it. I think some people miss having pets around. Patty said he reminds her of her childhood cat. And Tom said he brightens up the whole department.”

I glanced at Oscar, who had shifted slightly in his sleep and now looked even more like a decorative pillow. His little cat face was peaceful, almost meditative. I could see why people liked him.

“Jennifer,” I said carefully, “I want you to know that we take your accommodation seriously. Your mental health matters, and we want to support you. But we also have to consider other employees’ health concerns. I’m going to need a couple of days to work through this, okay?”

She nodded, looking miserable. “If I can’t bring Oscar, I don’t know if I can keep coming in. The office is so hard without Janice. Everyone seems so loud and close, and I keep thinking about how she used to meet me for lunch, and…” Her voice broke.

My heart did that empathy thing again, harder this time. “We’re going to figure this out,” I said, with more confidence than I felt. “Let me do some research. In the meantime, Oscar can stay. Nothing changes until we have a formal plan.”

The relief on her face was palpable. “Thank you, Greta. Really. Thank you.”

I left Jennifer’s cubicle and immediately went to find Marcus and Donna. Marcus was at his desk, typing furiously at his keyboard with the kind of aggressive energy that suggested he was writing a strongly worded email about something.

“Marcus,” I said. “Got a minute?”

He looked up, and his face brightened with the expression of someone who’s been given permission to complain. “Greta! Thank god. I assume you’re here about the cat situation? It’s completely unacceptable. My allergies are…”

“I need documentation,” I interrupted, because if I let Marcus get started, we’d be here until retirement. “If you have a cat allergy that’s severe enough to impact your work, I’ll need a note from your doctor.”

His face fell slightly. “Well, I don’t know if I need to go to the doctor. It’s pretty obvious I’m allergic. My eyes are itchy.”

“Are they itchy right now?” I asked, looking at his completely normal-looking eyes.

“Well, no, but they were this morning. Very itchy. And watery. And red, probably.”

“Uh-huh,” I said. “Well, get me that documentation and we’ll work on accommodations. How far is your desk from Jennifer’s?”

“At least thirty feet,” he admitted. “but dander travels! It’s in the air!”

I made a note: “Marcus: possibly allergic. Definitely dramatic.”

Donna was more reasonable. She actually did look like she had a cold, complete with red nose and a small mountain of tissues on her desk.

“Greta,” she said when I approached, “I’m so sorry about this morning. I don’t know if it’s allergies or just a cold. I probably overreacted. Jennifer looked so scared when Sheri came by.”

“So, you might not be allergic to cats?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” Donna said honestly. “I’ve never lived with a cat. I sneezed this morning, but I’ve been sneezing all week. It might just be a cold. I felt bad after I said something to Sheri. Jennifer’s been through so much.”

I could have kissed Donna. Reasonable employees are a gift to HR.

“Tell you what,” I said. “Why don’t you see how you feel over the next few days at home? You shouldn’t be at work while sick. If it’s a cold, it’ll get better. And if it is allergies I’ll just need a note from your doctor, we’ll figure out accommodations. Sound fair?”

She nodded. “That sounds fair. And Greta? That cat is really cute. I hope we can make it work.”

I spent the rest of the week playing what I privately called “Accommodation Tetris.” I researched air purifiers, consulted with our facilities team about HVAC systems, and had approximately seventeen conversations with our legal team about the ADA, emotional support animals, and reasonable accommodations.

Marcus, predictably, never provided medical documentation, but his complaints mysteriously decreased after I had a conversation with him about how his cubicle was far enough from Jennifer’s that cat dander wasn’t likely to be an issue.

Donna’s cold got better. She stopped by Jennifer’s desk to apologize and ended up petting Oscar for five minutes.

In the end, we installed an air purifier near Jennifer’s desk, established a “cat-free zone” in the break room, and Jennifer agreed to keep Oscar in a covered carrier when moving through common areas. Oscar, for his part, continued to sleep most of the day and became something of a departmental mascot.

A month later, Sheri stopped by my office. “I just wanted to say thank you,” she said. “For handling the Oscar situation. Jennifer seems so much happier. The whole team does, actually. I think they bonded over the cat.”

“That’s great, Sheri,” I said, genuinely pleased.

“Although,” she continued, “now Marcus is asking if he can bring his emotional support parakeet to work.”

I looked at her. She looked at me.

“I’ll email you the accommodation request form,” I said.

And that, folks, is HR.