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My Friend Hugo

I have always held an appreciation for the unconditional love animals can give to people. They don’t give it to everyone they meet, but when they do, it’s so special. I like that they are not slutty that way.

Whenever I go on Facebook, I usually get the familiar barrage of left-wing/liberal articles that I subscribe to. LGBTQ Rights! Feminists! Equal opportunity! Cat sandwich! The portrayal of women in media! Poor people! Rich people! That Dove commercial about those women and that sketch artist! Unfair treatment of minorities! Health care! George Takei! Pipelines! Who the hell is Libby Davies?!

But once in a while I will look at Hugo, asleep on top of my laptop or lazily muzzling a chunk of cat food off his plate, and I think about how none of that shit matters to him. Hugo is totally my best friend, and he wouldn’t really care if I were a woman or a man, if I were gay or not, or if I were Asian or not. He has no idea who Miley Cyrus is, and he is okay with that.

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Hugo just doesn’t give a crap who I am, as long as we get along. There is something mind-blowing about that, don’t you think?

And in return, I don’t care if Hugo doesn’t speak English. I also don’t care if he is gay or not. I also don’t care that he poops in what is essentially a plastic box. It’s just part of who he is, and I’m okay with that.

What I find that matters between him and me is that we are both happy and healthy. Maybe Hugo is a little bit more selfish than I am when I say that all he is interested in is being fed and being clean. But then again, for someone who doesn’t have thumbs and is only about 10 inches off the ground, he gets on amazingly well without me.

I take care of him because he’s a cool guy. He leaves me alone when I need him to leave me alone, and then he comes to hang out when he feels like it. There are no awkward conversations to be had or anything either. He lets me know when he’s hungry. I let him know when I can use a cat hug. We kind of operate on gentle cues for each other, and there is nothing forced about our interactions.

He doesn’t try to convince me that being a cat is better than being a person. Whenever I look at him, I only see one of two questions being asked:

A) Who the fuck cares?

B) When the hell is dinner?

No, really. Who the fuck cares?
No, really. Who the fuck cares?

So simple. I’m aware that this is totally a cat-lady train of thought, but I really appreciate these little things about Hugo that help me realign my thinking. He’s like a little hairy Buddha guiding me along some path to being a good person.