Antanaclasis

Antanaclasis (an’-ta-na-cla’-sis): The repetition of a word or phrase whose meaning changes in the second instance.

I put my cat down and put him down while doing so. Putting him down was one of the worst things I could do to him. When he was insulted the hair stood up on his back and his tail stuck straight up in the air, and he hissed too.

I had called him a “kitty litter eater”—the equivalent of “shit eater” for a person. He had spilled his water on the kitchen floor for the 10th time. I was wearing my socks around the house and I stepped right in the puddle. I slipped and fell down and hit my head on the refrigerator. I was unconscious for about five minutes. When I woke up, I let him have it, “You fu*kin’ kitty litter eater! Get the fu*k out of here or I’m taking you back to the pet shelter where you belong with all the other bad and idiot cats who can’t find a permanent home!”

He struck his insulted pose and jumped toward my face. I dodged him but he came back at my ear and raked it with his front paws. With my ear bleeding, I got up off the floor and kicked him as hard as I could. He got stuck between the refrigerator and wall. He was struggling like crazy, squirming and yowling.

There was a knock at my door. I looked out on my porch and it was Mrs. Pesky, the nosiest human on earth. She asked me what the noise was. I yelled back “My cat is stuck and I’m helping him get free.” She said in a high pitched voice “I think you are killing him.” Maybe she was right, but I told her to go away, or I would tell her niece she was up to her old tricks again—last time she was polishing peoples’ doorknobs for $2.00 with what she called her “soiled knickers.” She promptly left. She lived with her niece and needed to stay in her good graces.

I noticed Fartore (my cat) had gotten free and was rubbing up against my leg—a sure sign that amends were being made. Somehow I had to figure out how not to insult him. He was sensitive and I was insensitive. I started attending “Blurters Anonymous.” It helped people who spoke before they thought. My goal was to reach the status of “Tongue Biter.” I learned to bite my tongue before I say anything to Fartore. It works, but my tongue is sore. However, we have peace on the home front and I have discovered a mouthwash that effectively soothes my tongue. All is well. By the way, Mrs. Pesky got hit by a car

Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).

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