Back patter. I’m a back patter. Not normally, but give me a little juice and I’m a big Irish joker and back patter. I just never realized it. There was a party at our house and a lady went on a passionate oratorical bender. We were all rendered momentarily speechless with admiration. Then, drunkenly, I said great job and patted her on the back, lightly, twice. Pat pat. Surprised, she flinched. Holy shit, I thought, I’m a back patter. Suddenly it seemed touchy sleazy. Suddenly it seemed beyond the pale. I have not patted a back since, man’s or woman’s. Grown up or child. Dog or cat. OK, I have patted a dog on the back. But cats hate it.