Several years ago, I wrote this entry, dated September 9, 2003:
Yesterday and today, I saw Pork Chop hunch down on his stomach, bow his head, and stretch his paws outward in front of him, as if he were praying to Mecca. He remained in that position for a considerable amount of time, so I went up to him and asked, "Pork Chop, are you Muslim?" He ignored me, just like he ignores me when I stroke his paws and say, "Pork Chop, your hands are so soft. Do you use Palmolive?"
If Pork Chop is indeed Muslim, it would add a whole other level to the role-playing game we play called "Not Without My Daughter." In this game I wrap Pork Chop tight in a blanket, cradle him in my arms, and run around my apartment. I pretend to be Sally Field in the harrowing drama, Not Without My Daughter, trying to rescue my kidnapped child and escape the evil people of Iran, especially my freak of an Iranian husband who looks an awful lot like Alfred Molina.
I run and run and kiss Pork Chop on the forehead and improvise appropriate dialogue like, "I have to get away from these crazy and evil Iranians! I must escape this war-torn country...! But not without my daughter!"
We actually used to really play "Not Without My Daughter." It was fun. I'm not kidding. But we don't anymore. Pork Chop has outgrown such childish things.
Instead, we play Chase or Torture Chamber or Trapped in a Mine Shaft. Occasionally, Texas Hold 'Em. We still have loads of fun.