Don't make me get up...

My husband and I were talking about the responsiveness of our three cats. Zeke is quite obedient. Call him, he comes. Tell him to do something, he does it. BB, on the other hand, refuses to acknowledge that he even knows his name. Frankie hears, listens and ignores until I say “Frankie, don’t make me get up” and as I start to rise from my chair ba-da-boom she does as she was told. Which reminded me about a story I used to tell that probably is not true. Goes like this.

If my mother started to yell at us in English we pretty much ignored her. When she started to yell in Italian, we would get a little worried. When she started to yell at us in Yiddish, we made tracks, out of the house as fast and far as we could run.

I’ve been telling that story for so long I almost believe it. My mother did speak English, Italian and Yiddish. She did yell – a lot. And lord knows we stayed out of her way but I’m not so sure the language she used had anything to do with how much danger we might be in.

Maybe I was just trying to make something funny out of something scary.