Dog Days

Little Bro and I have a longstanding joke about Grandma and dogs. For a while, Little Bro's living situation was a bit tumultuous. He was debating moving to the city and asked if I'd be able to take his dog in that situation. His dog is a 65 pound all legs hound mix who still jumps up occasionally. I told Little Bro, "I don't think Grandma could handle him. Plus, she probably wouldn't remember where he came from. She'd probably shoo him out of the house going, 'I don't know whose dog this is!'" So now at any mention of Grandma and/or dogs we like to say, "Is this your dog?", "I don't know where this dog came from!", or "Whose dog is this?"

Cut to this week. Grandma and I are dogsitting for my dad. He has our beloved old family pet, Puppy (that's her in the photo). Puppy is a small pit bull. In her hey day she was a little tank of muscle. Her favorite activity was perching on the couch, looking out the front window, and barking at anyone or anything that dared to pass our house.

Now Puppy is about 14 or 15, and she and Grandma have a lot in common. Both are nonagenarians, arthritic, and hard of hearing. Puppy, however, has a much friendlier disposition. Grandma "just wants to be left alone," Puppy wants to follow you everywhere. While Grandma "just don't feel like eating," Puppy will eat whatever she can. Puppy happily ambles along while Grandma knocks into her with her walker muttering, "Get outta the way!"

And not even 10 minutes after my dad left, Grandma starts eying Puppy with suspicion. "Whose dog is that?"