He came by his name in a funny, odd way. His fur reminds me of a cow hide. And I was listening to Thunderstruck by AC/DC after I first met him. So Angus he became. Sweet tempered and a beta male, he loves nothing more than to be cuddled and loved on. Problem is... he's not Hobbs, he's not orange, mean, and well, he's a pussy. No pun intended. Poor baby. We got him for ChinaMoon as she stopped eating and spent 2 weeks crying after we lost Hobbs. I wasn't ready to lose another cat, so enter Angus. I was not, and in reality, still am not ready for this cat.
My heart is till hurting, I still cry for Hobbs, although not as much, but the aching void is still there. And Angus can't fill it. To be fair, he shouldn't have too. Angus is not a kitten, he's about 18 months old and as unfamiliar to me as I am to him. Had I gotten him as a kitten, he would have been mommied and therefore been my kitty. Don't get me wrong. I would never hurt or take less than the best care of him. I pet him and cuddle him, but he's not mine. I can't seem to drop the wall and let him in no matter how much I try. So thank goodness for my husband, who was not as attached to Hobbs as I was, and still am. Angus has picked up on this and goes to him for love and assurance. ChinaMoon and I, while we tolerate him, he will be a long time in becoming part of the shadow posse, if ever. An orange ghost still follows me with her (not literally) and I still sometimes hear his meow.
And Angus, like ChinaMoon, is a magickal dud. Which just sucks for me big time. I need, want and like that interaction with a familiar. I may need to get a third cat eventually. One of my choosing, when I'm ready. But for the time being, I will have to be content with the two pieces of lap candy I am currently residing with.
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