Nobody mentioned the cat during orientation.
There were presentations about RyzeCo's global networks, medical technology, research divisions, security protocols and enough internal systems that I stopped trying to remember all the acronyms before lunch.
But nobody mentioned Luma.
I noticed her anyway.
Actually, I noticed the pictures first.
One employee had a photo of a black-and-white cat beside his monitor. Another had one pinned near her desk. Someone's coffee mug said something about being powered by coffee and Luma.
I assumed it was an inside joke I hadn't learned yet.
Then the actual cat walked past.
No escort.
No apparent destination.
Just a small tuxedo cat moving through one of the largest technology companies in the world as though the building had been constructed for her convenience.
People greeted her.
That was strange enough.
What was stranger was that she seemed to expect it.
I finally asked someone whose cat she was.
“Ryze's.”
That made sense.
Then the employee beside her corrected the answer.
“Well...technically. But she's our cat.”
That made considerably less sense.
Until Tuesday.
Apparently, Luma followed Ryze into the sixth-floor cafeteria one afternoon and somebody gave her a little dish of tuna.
That was it.
That was the entire event.
She didn't perform a trick.
She didn't launch a product.
She didn't attend a meeting.
She ate the tuna.
By the end of the day, Communications knew.
Soon the cafeteria had a Tuna Tuesday special. Employees were taking pictures. Surveys appeared. Procurement was investigating sustainable fishing. Someone started campaigning for Beef Day. The weekend crew demanded Steak Saturday.
Meanwhile, Luma went to sleep.
I watched all of this happen and finally understood something they hadn't covered during orientation.
RyzeCo does extraordinary things.
There are systems here connecting people around the world. Technology that helps doctors care for patients. Research that sometimes feels several years ahead of the world outside these walls.
It's easy for a company that large to become nothing but systems, departments and numbers.
Then a little tuxedo cat walks through the hallway.
Someone stops working long enough to smile.
Another person reaches down to pet her.
Twenty people share the same ridiculous joke about cafeteria tuna.
And suddenly this enormous place feels smaller.
Warmer.
A little more human.
Luma doesn't actually do anything.
I think that's the point.
She doesn't have to.
Now I have a picture of her beside my monitor too.
And yes.
She's our cat.
— A RyzeCo Level 1 Trainee