Anadiplosis (an’-a-di-plo’-sis): The repetition of the last word (or phrase) from the previous line, clause, or sentence at the beginning of the next. Often combined with climax.
There was a special T-shirt I wanted to wear. I wanted to wear it everywhere. I had made it on the internet. It cost $18.00. It had a picture of my cat Furballerina (“Furball” for short) on it. She was a cross between a Persian cat, and possibly, a toy cougar.
There was a contest being run by the Generic Cat Food Company to find a cat-model. The cat-model’s owner would receive $100,000 and the cat’s picture would appear on all their products. There would also be a brief video of the cat eating some dry Generic Cat Food. That’s where the t-shirts come in. In addition to Furballerina’s picture with her name under it, the t-shirts say “Vote for me for Generic’s cat model 1-800-CAT-FOOD.”
I had 100 t-shirts made. I decided to hand them out in the Piggly Wiggly supermarket pet food section. When somebody would walk up, I’d holdup a t-shirt and say “Here’s a free t-shirt, vote for Furballerina.”
Then, I couldn’t believe what happened next!
An elderly woman pointed at Furballerina’s picture. She said, “That’s my cat Fluffy. We’ve been friends forever. I let her out in the morning and she comes home at six. She sits on my lap and we watch “Magnum PI” and go to bed at 8:00 pm without fail. You are trying to steal my cat so you can win some stupid contest. To quiet her down, I told the elderly woman I was an AARP detective. I told her I was investigating cat scams—everything from bogus flea collars to counterfeit scratching posts. I figured we could just keep on the way had been, sharing the cat. She didn’t need to know about that—she could go on believing that Fluffy was hers and hers alone. Hers alone, just like the “forever” she had referred to.
I thought I was out of the woods until she asked to see my AARP credentials. That did it! I bundled up my t-shirts, hugging them close to my chest, as I ran toward the doors and my escape through the parking lot. “Wait sonny” she yelled “I was just kiddin’ you.” I stopped and turned. She said, “I hate cats, I have a little Cockerpoo named CP that I adore.” I remembered my grandmother’s Cockerpoo named Rags. Such a nice little dog. They watched “Matlock” together, and “Ironsides” too.
I walked toward the parking lot. Why do I want Furballerina to win the contest? Why couldn’t I just enjoy her company instead of wanting to exploit her beauty and demeanor? I would turn the t-shirts into dust cloths. I was taking them out to the garden shed when I looked in my neighbor’s window. There was my neighbor carrying Furballerina and petting her. I went to my neighbor’s front door to demand my cat back. He said “This is my cat. She’s been living here for the past five years. Where have you been numb-nuts?” Furballerina didn’t even look at me. I was dashed. Then, around 11:00, I was in bed reading Eric Fromm’s Art of Love then there was a light scratching on my bedroom door. I opened the door and Furballerina dashed in, jumped up on my bed, and started purring. I got back in bed and she curled up against my leg. I thought to myself, thank God for cat flaps.
Furballerina wasn’t mine, but at least I was hers.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)
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