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Good shoulders

Good shoulders

I do not think Wooderson would mind being compared to a turnip.

Actually, I do not think Wooderson would mind being compared to a tadpole, or a KFC Double Down, or Grover Cleveland, or anything at all, so long as the one doing the comparing is gazing into his eyes.

But Wooderson’s eyes have seen the view from a turnip.

This is perhaps not the first metaphor our well-maned man evokes. A lush Lorax of a cat, Wooderson is abundance in full, a pompom fringed for fashion. Bearded and bewildered, the cat with the roundest head is a palm tree in a field of pines, Van Halen at the orchestra.

So it would appear.

But while Wooderson’s hair could have its own spin-off series, Wooderson is still learning to be the main character of his own life. As humble as his locks are loud, Wooderson is just a few steps out of the forest, and he’s not making any loud noises.

Actual words from Drew, echoed by entire staff: “Reminder for myself: order 10 more Wooderson’s in different colors. but equally as big cheeks.”

Loud noises, in fact, are Wooderson’s worst enemies, the only enemies of a cat with floor-length kindness. Initially placed in a room adjacent to Quinn’s Corner, Wooderson trembled with terror, every long hair independently electrified, when construction clanged.

But where drills and hammers shout, love whispers.

And when love is heard above the din, trembling turnips start to shoulder.

“Shouldering,” in the world of vegetables (a continent admittedly not on the travelogue of any self-respecting cat), means showing up…slowly. Applied particularly to tubby tubers like turnips, carrots, and Woodersons, shouldering is the process by which a beautiful earth-child begins to emerge. After the long, secret season of growth, the turnip or the Wooderson sighs its way through the ground.

No one can rush this process. To yank the turnip would tragically interrupt the deep dialogue between tuber and soil. There are mysteries we must not boss, miracles we dare not dig up before their time.

There are cats who appear party-ready, but whose love language is time.

So we tended to the tufted tabby in time’s poetry. Reassuring voices patted good soil around his fears. Buttery blinks spoke sweet certainties. Wooderson could double down as long as necessary. There would be food and love and a good education all along. There would be no shortage of patience.

The long haired cat had found himself a long-term promise: you can’t exhaust our love.

Eventually, Wooderson exhausted the books he’d brought (the complete works of Emily Dickinson, Cloudy With A Chance of Meatballs, and Whipped Ricotta: A History). He realized he’d been remade in the shade of the tall, tender trees in sweatshirts and blue jeans.

He shimmied his shoulders.

He poked his palms above the treeline.

He found that love would shoulder his full weight. It was safe to show himself, dare himself, and throw himself into our arms.

It was safe to grow.

And now he doesn’t mind much of anything, not one bit.

He doesn’t mind the hugs and kisses.

He doesn’t mind the energetic arguments over which staff member will get to run away with him.

He doesn’t mind letting his love as loose and wild as his hair.

He doesn’t mind the rhapsodies about his ragin’ handsomeness, much less the comparisons to both Albert Einstein and Keanu Reeves.

He doesn’t even mind my comparing him to a turnip.

Exuberantly Unsurprising Update: Wooderson has been adopted by two of the world’s most wonderful human beings. Everything’s turning up roses. Er, turnips.

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