Who’s cot is it anyway? The petty war of Truck #26 and the Berry cot

There’s a man in my non‑emergency medical fleet who treats a folding stretcher like a condo deed—“his” truck (#26), “his” cot, name tag nailed on like he’s paying HOA. I’m telling you, the emotional attachment had more punctuation than his comprehension of communal equipment.

If you don’t know what a cot is, it’s one of those folding stretchers on wheels that live in ambulances. He claimed one like a middle‑aged pirate claiming a parrot: constant, possessive, annoying. I quote an Internet sage: “What a cot picken ninny muggin.” Perfect. So I complied—maliciously. Every little failure? Truck #26 out of service. Leak? Out. Flat? Out. Coffee spill? Temporarily retired. And the Berry cot he loved? I made sure it followed him like a bad decision. Did he get to use “his” stuff? Sure—like a celebrity using a stunt double.

Punchline: he wanted ownership. I gave him custody. Possession is nine‑tenths of the cot, except when HR and maintenance get involved—then it’s nine‑tenths paperwork and one glorious, petty victory for the rest of us. Comedy.