I didn’t choose the name coozledad. It was unloaded on me by a feral cat.

I wouldn’t hesitate to use my real name except for the fact the region where I live is not only disproportionately populated by religious zealots, it’s also heavily inmarried, and I discovered a long time ago if you piss one of them off, the rest of them will gather like white corpuscles to kick your “not from around here” ass out. And I’m likely to piss some of them off. So I’m coozledad. As in, father figure to one Sam Bacoo, AKA coozle.

I did not, repeat, did not, adopt the name of some early sixties satyromaniac from Malibu. It has nothing to do with pussy.

At my old house, a large stray tom used to show up and kick my neutered male’s ass all the time. Then he’d eat all the food we’d placed outdoors for the cats to eat while we were at work. After awhile, my cat learned to avoid him, and the stray took up on our front porch. Before too long he’d come up to you, ostensibly for a pet, but really for a kind of multiple site blood draw that would leave most people confused, angry and ready to kill. Before long My arms looked like Iggy Pop’s chest. My wife fell in love with him immediately.

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