Every now and then, it feels like I'm living in a Bill Cosby skit.
I'm wandering around the house, talking on the phone, when our cat Pounce decides to make his need for attention and affection known by walking up and swatting me in the back of the leg.
Before I go any farther, I should probably take a second or two to explain Pounce. Right now, we have three cats. Two of them are named Pounce. They share a single body. One of the two is absolutely the sweetest, most affectionate kitten you'll ever meet. The other is a psychotic bundle of fur that dashes off in a random direction, bouncing off the furniture, whenever it hears a loud noise, like a sneeze or a yawn. Whenever you look at the cat, it flips a coin to see who gets to run the body this time.
Anyway, the cute and fuzzy Pounce walked over and affectionately rubbed against my leg. Then it switched gears, transformed into the maniac, and attacked my ankle.
I said, "Hey, Stupid Ass! Knock it off!"
And the dog got up and walked over to see what I wanted.
It was because of my father that from the ages of seven to fifteen, I thought that my name was Jesus Christ and my brother, Russell, thought that his name was Dammit. "Dammit, will you stop all that noise?" And, "Jesus Christ, sit down!" One day, I'm out playing in the rain, and my father yelled, "Dammit will you get back in here!" I said, "Dad, I'm Jesus Christ!"