As one of the latter who cherishes the former, I do my part to fight that sort of silliness.
His name to the contrary, Hocus has never been accused of witchery. He has, however, been accused of weirdness. Massive weirdness. (Which would be an excellent name for a band.)
First there’s the baffling detail in Hocus’ medical records. Per the note, our hairy boy was/is a Persian.
You tell me:
Hmm. If he’s a Persian, he’s of a decidedly weird awesome sort. No smooshy face here – just a superabundance of hair and huggability.
Well…kind of. Hocus is eminently huggable in the sense that, once you’ve laid eyes upon him, you want to hug him. Desperately. With the same desperation the silly rabbit has for Trix, and the Cubs have for a World Series, and Meat Loaf has for love.
But Hocus won’t do that (oh no no no, he wooooon’t do that). Let you hug him, that is. Chalk it up to his own brand of magic, but somehow the most huggable-looking cat is one of the least hug-willing.
Here’s the thing: something in Hocus’ green gaze gives away the heart under all that hocus pocus. And this hairy guy’s heart is roughly the size of the Sahara. He wants the love. He wants the mooshing. His perfect little oh-so-serious, inverted-V mouth almost says, “Dear madam, if it please thy ladyship, wilt thou huggest mine fluffitude?” (And, yes, Hocus sounds like Colin Firth in my head. Which is a very strange place indeed.)
Mark my words: we wilt will hug that fluffitude. Maybe this summer. Maybe next year. Maybe in six years. All in good Hocus time.
In the meantime, I’m not sure why Hocus is so hesitant…but I know we’ll give him all the time, love and tenderness he needs. (Good glory, I just quoted a Michael Bolton song. Somebody help me.)
Maybe Hocus’ timidity comes from the same roots that give so many of us grief. Maybe he’s been burned, or spurned, or falsely judged. Life’s not always a bowl of cherries Fancy Feast for a hairy guy. I should know…I’ve made life sub-feasty for one hairy guy in particular. Back in my freshman year of college, I was wooed by a fellow who I came to refer to, among friends, as The Hairy Scary Guy (THSG). Foolish Angela judged and feared THSG for his skin-deep persona (picture a combo of Slash, a felon, and a mountain man sitting on the edge of his yard with a sawed-off rifle and hollerin’ “git offa mah land”). We square-danced together at freshman orientation and studied for finals together. He put sweet notes on my dorm room door. But, I kept my distance. Someone this hairy, this scary, could not be trusted.
Fast forward two years, and who was the faithful friend with whom I wept and worried and poured out my foolish heart as the events of 9/11 unfolded? Yep – none other than THSG. Behind that curtain of Whitesnake-member hair and those black clothes was a sweet soul with a heart as big as the sky.
I won’t make that rash-judgment mistake again, certainly not about this hairy, unscary guy. Hocus, you have this strange woman – and numberless others – in your corner, even when hiding in the corner is the best you can do. We cherish you for all your strange magic, your perhaps-Persian glory…and yes, that flaxen, waxen hair.