Fur & Fury: Why I Resigned from Kevin McTabbins Enterprises

To: Mr. Kevin McTabbins

CEO & Founder

McTabbins Enterprises, Inc.

Subject line: Notice of Resignation and Exit Reflections

Dear Kevin,

After a year of dedicated service, I am formally resigning from my position, effective immediately.

You may be surprised. So am I.

When I first accepted this role, it seemed unconventional but promising. You were unaccompanied, aloof, and gave every impression of needing support. I assumed I was being called into something meaningful—a quiet little mission with moments of purpose and connection. I entered into the arrangement in good faith. I'm embarrassed to admit that I even had a tiny crush on you, being smitten by your charm and endearing ways.

But the past 12 months have made it clear that this was never a partnership. This was a one-sided enterprise marked by unclear expectations, volatile leadership, and the slow erosion of my dignity. And so, as part of my exit (which I’ve chosen to self-initiate, since no one seems to be managing HR), I’d like to outline several concerns that have led to this unfortunate but necessary decision. Perhaps it is simply to get this off my chest, but I hope that you will also learn from it.

Key issues leading to my resignation

The business is drifting aimlessly. There is no clear mission, vision or revenue model. I joined McTabbins Enterprises under the impression that we were building something together. But there are no customers. No output beyond poop and fur balls. No KPIs beyond “feed me” and “don’t touch me.” The workflow consists of bursts of frantic, unexplained activity at 4:00 am, followed by 12 hours of down-time. If this is a startup, I'm afraid it is not investor-ready.

You have created a hostile work environment. When we pass in the hallway, you often glare at me in silence. I'm never quite sure whether you will rub up against my leg or bite me--which you have done on more than one occasion. I'm sure HR--if we had one--would agree the first constitutes harassment and the second, workplace violence. You are also very demanding, following me from room to room in a way that I can only describe as menacing. My attempts to leave the premises are met with vocal protests and, when I return, I discover my personal belongings have been damaged.

Boundaries are non-existent. I cannot use the bathroom alone. If I close the door, you scream. If I leave it open, you stare--as if I'm the creepy one. There is no place I can go--my bed, my sofa, enjoying coffee with a friend at my kitchen table, where you do not feel entitled to waltz right in and make yourself at home. This is not typically how employee-boss relationships work.

You exhibit extreme micromanagement. I am monitored from the top of the fridge, the bookshelf, and sometimes my own shoulder. There is no escape from your constant observation; I have woken up at night to find you staring down at me from atop the headboard.

Your business etiquette is frankly appalling. When I try to work, you sit on the keyboard. During Zoom meetings, you walk across the screen, show your rear-end to the camera, and hang up my calls. You groom yourself in public. You chew with your mouth open. Sometimes, in the middle of a conversation, you simply get up and leave the room.

Feedback is inconsistent and confusing. One moment you're purring. The next, you're drawing blood. I never know if I’ve pleased you, failed you, or if you’ve simply remembered something I did wrong three days ago.

Work hours are undefined and unreasonable. You expect me to be on call 24/7. Breakfast, lunch, dinner, playtime and all night long. Where is the work/life balance?

Bonus culture is unclear and unsettling. At year-end, I had hoped for perhaps a thank-you card or a Butterball turkey. Instead, you presented me with a dead mouse as if it was a holiday fruitcake. And to add insult to injury, you had already eaten half of it yourself. I understand this may have been a grand gesture in your culture, something highly symbolic. But it left me confused and frankly, a bit nauseated.

You make my job unnecessarily difficult--perhaps intentionally. I understand accidents happen. But your hairballs never land on tile—they streak across the Persian carpet like lightening in a midnight sky. Your waste disposal habits are... interpretive.

I suspect you may be trying to murder me. Perhaps I'm simply paranoid, but your insistence on weaving in and out of my legs while I carry hot tea down the stairs is rather unnerving. You also drink from my water glass after licking your own butt, and honestly, I believe that's quite unsanitary.

I was misled during onboarding. You arrived looking helpless. Hungry. Lost. I believed you were a stray. I now know this was just part of your very clever marketing pitch.

Still, I might have stayed—had I not discovered the truth.

Last week, I ran into Jessica from Unit 6.

Yes, Kevin. I know all about Jessica.

As we chatted, Jessica glanced over to the gardens and said, "Ohhh, there's my sweet Sir Pudding Pops." I glanced over and you high-tailed it behind a tulip patch, but I would recognize that furry butt anywhere.

And then there's Anthony from across the park. He calls you Tutu Toe Beans. And Beverley, from down the block, knows you as Captain Catnip, and Henry from two streets over loves to snuggle with his Furry Bun Buns.

It shocked and saddened me, when I came to realize you are running a multi-residence manipulation network.

You are not a stray, Kevin. You are not in need of rescue. You are, in fact, a feline entrepreneur managing a rotating network of humans across multiple properties. Treats here. Catnip there. At another home, pillows piled high in windows bathed in warm sunbeams.

I thought I was indispensable. I wasn’t even exclusive. I realized I was just a part of the brand, a cog in the Kevin McTabbins creature comforts infrastructure.

I have my self-respect. So effective immediately, I am stepping down.

I trust your other staff will pick up where I’ve left off. In your future endeavors, I wish you many full bowls, sunny days and warm laps from your satellite offices.

Sincerely,

Ms. Patience Pennyworth

Former Chief Human Officer, McTabbins Enterprises

P.S. Oh, before I go, I’ve restocked your food. I’ve fluffed your blanket. I’ve opened the blinds for your afternoon surveillance shift and left the window open just wide enough for you to come and go. While our business relationship has ended, you can always come back and visit as friends. After all, you know where I live.