Hoctor Hoctor…
Hoctor is one of those strange crossover names you dont quite know what to make of. It’s a bit like Doctor and a bit like Hector, but ultimately it isn’t really either of them. I met my 1st Hoctor a couple of days ago. I wasn’t expecting to meet him. I wasn’t expecting to ever meet anyone called Hoctor. That would have been sad. But it matters not. I arrived at my friend Alex’s house in Crouch End for an evening of Taco madness and was welcomed at the door by a very excitable little cat. Hoctor the Cat.
After what may in fact be the most thrilling game of football on the x-box ever (Tottenham 5 – Barcelona 4), I crashed out and prepared to awake anew for the glory of Wednesday. I have always considered Wednesday to be unique amongst all days, because not only is it the middle of the week, it is also spelt so absurdly differently to how it is pronounced that one has to ask what the Anglo-Saxons were thinking & drinking when they came up with it. Language is a strange thing. The Anglo-Saxons were no doubt a strange bunch. But Hoctor is just a damn cool cat.
There were two Hoctor-related incidents that gave me much joy on Wednesday. The first involved a fake mouse. It wasn’t the greatest specimen of fake mouse. Certainly nothing as intricate as the one below.
In fact, it looked more like a small rubber ball. But Hoctor is young and adventurous. So adventurous in fact that he spent an enjoyable hour stalking this small rubber ball across the floor. Recalling the killer instincts of his savannah-dwelling cousins, Hoctor would lie in wait for the small rubber ball, bide his time, and then POUNCE!! It was a privilige to see the man in action.
This was merely a light appetiser for where Hoctors curious nature would lead him next. Hoctor had zeroed in on the fireplace as a source of adventure and entertainment. He sniffed around a for a minute or so, and then decided to go for the plunge. Long dark tunnels are always too tempting for intrepid explorers like Hoctor to resist. And so he set off on the long expedition to the top of Chimney Mountain. To the land of Terrace Roof, where the air is clean and the view is green. I couldn’t say for sure how far little Hoctor got. Armchair voyeurs such as myself are not qualified to pass judgement on brave creatures such as Hoctor who endeavour to go where no feline has gone before. But I think he must have dislodged a bit of soot, because he came scrabbling down again in an awful hurry – slightly blacker, slightly wiser, and a legend forever.
Tags: Bucky in Britain, Cats
The Dude
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