Part Two: The Studio Roles They Assigned Themselves
Now that the secret’s out about my four studio assistants — yes, they’re cats, and yes, they insist on treating my creative workspace like their personal headquarters — it’s probably time to introduce you to their “official” job roles. And I put that in quotes because I didn’t assign anything. They took it upon themselves, as any confident, self-appointed staff would.
Every good team has structure, rhythm, and a certain… unspoken arrangement. Mine is no different. They’ve built a workplace culture entirely of their own. I just live in it.
Let’s break down the department.
Minky, as expected, is the Operations Director. She doesn’t hustle. She doesn’t scramble. She oversees. She’s the quiet, steady energy in the room — the one who makes you feel like someone is always supervising, but in a distant, approving way. Her main tasks include sitting somewhere elevated, blinking slowly, and maintaining an aura of calm authority that no one else can quite replicate.
Then we move to Uno, who has naturally stepped into the role of Senior Advisor. He’s the kind of presence that strolls in, takes a long look at everyone, gives the impression of having seen far more than any of us could imagine, and settles down like he’s decided the place is running acceptably. Uno doesn’t hover; he monitors. He’s the one who reminds the twins what “professionalism” looks like, even if they don’t always listen.
Speaking of the twins, they’re the junior staff — but not in a negative way. More like the enthusiastic newcomers who think they’re running the show because they arrived full of ego and energy, but still look over at the senior team to see what’s actually acceptable behaviour.
Stumpy is the Shadow Specialist. That’s the only title that fits him. He appears and disappears with no warning, always nearby but rarely noticed until he moves. He’s like the quiet IT guy who somehow knows everything that’s happening in the office, but only communicates in cryptic one-liners and nods. Pure black, he has a true night-mode feature — sometimes even I lose track of him. But he’s always there, lurking with purpose.
Sox, on the other hand, is the Style and Culture Manager. The only one with white socks, white whiskers, and a tiny flash of white on his belly, he brings some colour and charisma to the team. Completely black otherwise, he’s a walking optical illusion until he sits down and flashes those perfect little socks. Sox prides himself on being alert, curious, and fully aware of everything I do. He watches with enthusiasm, like he’s auditing the entire creative process for quality control.
Together, the four of them have unintentionally created a workflow around me. I sit at my desk, and they slot into position with the confidence of people who believe they’ve held these jobs for years. They don’t interrupt. They don’t demand. They simply watch, supervise, and offer the kind of silent moral support no human team could ever match.
Sometimes Minky takes the high ground.
Sometimes Uno arrives late, surveying the room with all the gravity of a visiting consultant.
Sometimes Sox tilts his head and gives me that “are you sure about that decision?” look.
And sometimes Stumpy vanishes entirely, only to reappear behind my chair like he’s been monitoring the whole operation from the shadows.
What amazes me is how naturally they’ve carved out their individual spaces. No arguments, no conflict, no memos. Just instinct and routine. They’ve built an entire creative ecosystem without saying a word.
Most people don’t realise how grounding it is to have four silent figures watching over your work. They don’t question my ideas. They don’t complain about deadlines. They don’t ask for meetings. They simply exist in this strange little creative bubble with me, making the whole process feel less lonely and far more amusing.
And the best part? They genuinely seem invested in whatever I do.
Well — unless there’s a butterfly outside. Then everyone’s off-duty.
In the next part, I might take you into their daily schedule. Yes, they have one. No, I didn’t design it. And yes, it’s as structured and ridiculous as you’d imagine.
