James D. Hogan

Rabbits

On June 28, 2023

Sure, life finds a way. So do all the forces conspiring against it.

Friday morning I was leaving for work when I opened the garage door and found what appeared to be a large pinecone in the driveway. As we don’t have any conifers next to the driveway, I was curious as to how it ended up there, and I went to explore.

It had been raining all week, and there, next to a puddle, was a baby rabbit. At first glance, I assumed it was dead, but after a few seconds, I realized the poor critter was in fact alive, breathing shallowly now and then. The morning temperatures were in the 50s; it was probably hypothermic.

There really wasn’t anything to do. Most of what I know about baby rabbits revolves around a grim understanding that they die. They are comically vulnerable. Loud noises could spur them into fatal shock. I wasn’t sure how this fellow had ended up in our driveway, but I needed to get to work. I put him under a rhododendron next to the garage.

My mistake is that I told the kids what I’d done.

Misty Mountain

By James D. Hogan

On February 24, 2023

In diary

DIARY

Friday morning, and for a late February day it’s already much warmer than it ought to be. Highs today and through the weekend will climb into the 70s. The roses are budding, the bulbs are pushing shoots out of the ground, and spring is threatening. It’s too early–we’re at least a couple of weeks ahead of schedule, if not more, and a cold snap could bring a lot of heartache. March snow is a real thing in North Carolina, even if we’re all but sunbathing ten days after Valentine’s.

Kelly is in Las Vegas for a meat-up, and yesterday and today I’ve woken up early to play varsity parent. There’s a lot to do on a regular school day: breakfasts, lunches, puppies, hair, packing, drop-off. The kids are very helpful. This morning I put in Annie’s earring after I accidentally tugged it out while brushing her hair. It occurred to me I’d never once poked an earring through her ear. She was a good sport about it.

Not only am I parenting solo, but Kel’s minivan went into the shop this week to get a nose job (read: new bumper to replace the one that got a hole in it when she got into a bump-up almost a year ago in Hickory). While the minivan was in Franklin for repairs, Kel was driving my car, and I’ve been driving Woodrow the Wagoneer.

Cat Head

By James D. Hogan

On February 11, 2023

In writing

The joys and exhaustion of becoming a college mascot

Tuesday we hosted an event on campus to kick-off our month-long “I Love WCU” celebration. We set up a couple of tables at the university center, we hand out cookies, we generate good will. It’s a fun event, and the most worthwhile part is hearing from students about the things they love most about their alma mater.

The unexpectedly fun part, though, came after the fellow who normally plays Paws, the WCU mascot, called in sick. Rebekah, one of my colleagues, called to let me know. Back in November, Rebekah portrayed the mascot herself in a commercial we produced for Giving Tuesday, but she suggested this time I should don the suit instead. I was wary at first, and later I would find out why she was happy to pawn this off on me, but eventually I agreed. The athletics staff delivered the mascot costume, and I jumped in.

Well…jumped isn’t exactly the right word. You have to carefully strap into the get-up. It took probably ten or fifteen minutes to get it all assembled–not that it’s that difficult, but mostly that the more implements you put on, the fewer fine motor skills you have left. It’s a bit like a band uniform–overall bottoms, covered by a pull-over top (padded, muscular, not English-major-ish at all) that are directly connected to the cat’s hands. You strap on humorously large sandals that are its feet, and you pull on an oversized head connected to a football helmet. Once you’re in, you’re in. There’s no quick exit.

There’s an opening in the cat’s mouth about the size of an iPhone that lets you see out–but even that is covered by black, mesh fabric. The interior carries the lingering smell of a sweaty locker room. When fully assembled, the costume renders you into a human baked potato. I was sweating before I finished getting dressed.