He is what you would call a doofus — or, as they spell it in the land of his people, dufus.
But woe to the one who looks at Rufus and sees an uncomplicated dufus.
We forget this.
If there’s any excuse in this case (there isn’t), it’s that Rufus is an exquisite dufus.
The near-permanently-protruding tongue.
The kinda crossed eyes.
The personality that’s equal parts Elmo and Gonzo and Groucho Marx.
Rufus can’t help but doof about. Whether he’s watching Divya eat or watching the thoughts in his head dance, he looks befuddled and he feels astonished and he bimbles and bumbles about like it’s all a bit much for him.
Which it is.
(As it is for you and for me and for anyone honest. Is it not? All a bit much, I mean?)
But he’s also a bit much — a big, bountiful bit much — for this world.
And he knows it.
Upon arrival in Suite FIV, Rufus was all huge-eyed with wonder and horror, hope and fear. That’s a reasonable reaction to the likes of Wolfie and Wilbur and the whirling daily debate over WHO IS GETTING WHICH DISH OF WHICH MEAT MUSH WHEN?!
And so Rufus stares, all dufus-like.
Until he doesn’t.
Were Rufus a one-dimensional dufus, he’d just stare and stumble.
But this is a cat of many qualities…and so he also charges.
Full of fear and feist and funky goodness, Rufus rushes into the fray, biting ankles and expressing himself in ways you wouldn’t expect. He loves hapless humans, ferociously; he snaps at lounging limbs, unexpectedly.
He is a cavern of complexities, adorably draped in the mantle of a dufus.
He is, in fact, a marvel, the likes of which you can never mine all the way to the bottom.
And he is reading this post from the comforts of his own forever home.
And never forget, kittens; you are complexities upon complexities, full constellations of confusion and glory, gifted by your Creator with countless quirks and charms and offerings only you can offer this world. You have a richness beyond measure.
You have a home.
Doof on, darlings.