Articulus (ar-tic’-u-lus): Roughly equivalent to “phrase” in English, except that the emphasis is on joining several phrases (or words) successively without any conjunctions (in which case articulus is simply synonymous with the Greek term asyndeton). See also brachylogia.
“Stand up, sit down, roll over, beg, speak.” My father thought it was funny to treat me like a dog. He nicknamed me “Hardy” after the neighbor’s dog. Whenever our neighbor called their dog, I would come running. Everybody thought it was hilarious, including me. I was only 12, so if my dad thought it was funny, so did I. When I got older, my neighbor’s wife started calling me Hardy. Of course, I’d come running. When I got to her front door, I made a little whining sound I had developed to enhance the realism of my dog-hood. She would open the door with her bathrobe open and I would “chase my tail” on the porch and make happy dog yipping sounds.
She’d hold out a cupcake and ask me if I wanted “a treat, boy.” 0f course I said “Yes” and sat with my “paws” up by my chin. She hand-fed me the cupcake and asked me if I wanted to come in and play ride the pony. I loved ride the pony. She made whinnying sounds and bucked.
We were in the middle of our ride when the police burst in and put handcuffs on her. I barked and growled at them and they just shook their heads and told me to go home. When I got home, my dad told me that now I was 18 and “you are longer Hardy.” He told me I had turned 18 the previous week, but he had forgotten to tell me. He gave me a new set of knee pads even though he told me my dog days were over.
I went to the police station, told them I was 18 and showed my birth certificate as proof. They shook their heads and looked at me with pity in their eyes: “your neighbor was arrested for shoplifting a 20 foot extension ladder from Ace Hardware,” one of them said. I was allowed to visit her in her cell. I got on her lap, whined, and licked her face. She scratched me behind the ear and said, “Good boy.” She told Mr she stole the ladder so we could elope—so we wouldn’t be killed by her husband. With that, I was so overcome with emotion, I started humping her leg. She yelled “No! Sit!” and pushed me away. I calmed down and just sat there looking at her. Suddenly, she said, “It’s over.” I sat up and begged, but it did not work. She was having none of it.
One of the conditions of her release was to stay away from me and undergo psychological counseling. I looked for a new master but had no luck. Evidently, ours was a rare condition. I blamed it all on my father—if he hadn’t nicknamed me Hardy, none of this would’ve happened. At night, when I howl over my lost love, he yells “Shut up or I’ll lock you in the garage!”
I’ve entered counseling with Dr. Mastiff at the Fern Frond Clinic. We play fetch for one hour per week. Sometimes, we bark at each other.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)
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