Prolepsis (pro-lep’-sis): (1) A synonym for procatalepsis [refuting anticipated objections]; (2) speaking of something future as though already done or existing. A figure of anticipation.
Fluffy was my cat . I had adopted him from the cat lady down the road. She had about 45 cats with kittens coming all the time. She had a 12×25 foot kitty litter box in her yard. It was heated with an ice-melting ramp that connected to it off the back porch. So, the cats were good to “go” all four seasons of the year. The cats’ water bowl was a kiddie pool, as was their food dish. She fed them “Fancy Feast” canned whitefish pate. The smell of fish was overwhelming. You could pick up the scent a quarter-mile away.
The Cat Lady told me that Fluffy was a little bit “off?” He had been stepped on by the mailman, and now, he staggered a little when he walked. He was black with one white foot—his right-rear foot. He had huge paws and the cat lady said he probably was some kind of Siberian Forest Cat. The big paws make it easy to walk on snow, like snowshoes.
Fluffy was the world’s best cat! We were partners. Friends for life. Fluffy had the sweetest disposition. On the drive home he climbed on my lap and purred. When we got home, I fed him. He gobbled up his food. I had gotten him a kitty bed, but he jumped out each time I put him in. I found a cardboard box. No go. He climbed into my grandmother’s soup tureen that was decorating the center of my dining room table. That was Fluffy’s bed from then on. As a special treat, every once in a while, I would warm the tureen in the microwave. Fluffy loved that.
So, it seemed everything would be fine. When I went downstairs the next morning, all the pictures of my family had been knocked off mantle. The glass was smashed on the floor. But that was the end of it. He never damaged anything again. But, he did develop one bad habit: drinking out of the toilet bowl. As a male living alone, I was really bad about putting down the toilet seat, so it made the toilet bowl fair game for Fluffy. I tried to develop a “seat down” habit, but I wasn’t succeeding.
Then one morning I didn’t see Fluffy around—he usually slept with me and came downstairs with me for breakfast. I had to pee. I went into the bathroom, l lifted up the toilet seat lid. There was Fluffy. His head was stuck under the bidet nozzle and he was drowned. In a panic I flushed the toilet. His limp body just fluttered in the water currents as he was sucked toward the drain, but couldn’t fit down it. He was going nowhere. I had a couple shots of straight vodka and went to the laundry room and got a mesh sock-drying bag. I went back to the bathroom and pulled fluffy out of the toilet by his tail and stuffed him in the mesh bag and zipped it up.
He was soaking wet. I wanted to dry him in the dryer before I turned him to ashes in the incinerator in the back yard. I set him on “Longer Dry,” pressed the button, and waited.
I heard Fluffy yowling inside the dryer. I opened the door and was going crazy trying to claw his way out of the mesh bag. I was shocked and ecstatic at the same time. I just don’t know what to say. I think this falls into the category of the paranormal.
I have purchased a motorized toilet seat cover. It automatically lowers the toilet seat one minute after flushing, or when it detects movement adjacent to the toilet.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)
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