How Much is That Doggie in the Window?

Grampy called me on Friday night to tell me he was getting a puppy. A Jack Russell terrier no less. He was supposed to be inheriting Alice, the neighbor lady's dog, Suzy. Alice keeps falling and her kids said one more fall and they would banish her to a nursing home. It's been three months and Alice is still sitting in her recliner, still complaining about her hip and I guess Grampy got tired of waiting for her to break it.

Grampy's never had a puppy before. They are jumpy, they bite, they eat shoes, they poop and pee everywhere. They are high maintenance and it's all Grampy can do to make sure he makes it to the toilet himself on time, let alone take a puppy outside every 5 minutes.

Mike and I high-tailed it over there bright and early the following morning for a “Puppy-vention”. We talked to him about the down-side of puppies and begged him to let us take him to the SPCA and pick out an older dog, a mellower dog, a house-broken dog, a dog on its last leg—like him. Grampy listened in silence, a blank stare on his face. I began to wonder if he even remembered he was getting a puppy. We preached the Voice of Reason to him—and Mike's a great preacher. He gets passionate and loud. It's in his DNA. He stood up and waved his arms for greater effect when he got to the “How are you going to have the physical stamina to house-break a puppy, dad!?” part. And at that precise moment there was a timid knock on the front door, followed by an old lady standing there with a puppy in her arms.

Grampy's new love....2 month old "Missy"

Opening the door and grinning from ear to ear, Grampy exclaimed “There's my little Missy!” (he'd already picked out a name). He took the dog, cradling her in his arms and began talking to her, crooning to her, practically salivating over her. The delivery lady was the neighbor lady on the other side of his trailer. Not Alice with the hip...no this was Barbara with the chihuahua named “Mister”. Barbara just moved in a few weeks ago and evidently she and Grampy are already fast friends. He'd told me about her when she first moved in. Word in the predominately female trailer park is that Grampy is an eligible single male and she'd brought him home baked cookies lickety split upon her arrival. “Oh” I said “You are two-timing Alice. Does Alice know about the new girlfriend?” “No” he simply stated. “Well is Barbara pretty?” I asked. “Well” he pondered “She's fat but she's not bad to look at.” Grampy is not a mincer of words; he tells it like it is. Then he went on to talk about Mister the chihuahua, ad nauseum. I wonder if these poor women know that Grampy only loves them for their dogs?

The quickest way to a man's heart...a plate of cookies

Grampy took Missy outside to do “potty” and at that point, Mike turned a questioning, dare I say accusatory, gaze onto Barbara who had settled herself into a recliner. She was non-plussed and beaming with pride just to have been a part of this special moment. “He's lonely” she offered as an explanation for butting into his business and spearheading the whole dog acquisition movement. “Yeah well he has a huge family that wants to love him and spend time with him but they are rejected at every try. It's his own fault.” I didn't say that but I was thinking it. I've always been resentful of the amount of love Grampy gives his dogs while his human family gets none of it.

Grampy and the puppy came back into the house, whereupon he gave us a 5 minute description of Missy's first “doodie”. The size, the color, the consistency, the exact location on the grass... like she was a canine astronaut making her first lunar landing. Criminy Christmas, he wouldn't stop talking about it. He was proud as a chicken farmer whose hen laid a four yolk egg. Barbara was excited, encouraging him on. I began looking for the nearest exit. Mike and I could clearly see the intervention was an epic fail. So with our tails tucked between our legs we edged our way to the door, and with one last word of advice from Mike-- “Dad, just don't feed her people food!” we left.

Next morning Mike showed up on Grampy's doorstep to make sure all was OK. He found the old man in the living room eating his breakfast; the puppy sitting on his lap eating scrambled eggs.

Sigh. Raising your parents is a thankless job.

The Egg-tervention

Grampy is a hoarder. A food hoarder. No. I'm serious as a heart attack. His kitchen and spare room look like a Doomsday Prepper has settled in and lives there. From non-perishable food to water and cleaning supplies, he is sure 'nuff prepped. And yes, God help us all, he even owns a firearm. Luckily Mike found and confiscated all his bullets and had the firing pin removed, but he can still shake his shotgun at his cranky neighbor and we've been called twice now by the manager of the trailer park, threatening to toss him out on his sorry hiney....but I digress.

His freezer boasts 20 packages of hot dogs and even more packages of bologna. Old mayonnaise jars full of beef stew and some other unrecognizable entree are stacked neatly on the top rack while the bottom rack holds mostly bags and bags of english muffins and bacon.

But the hoarding substance that worries us the most is his aresenal of eggs. He called me a month ago complaining that he needed to get to the store because they had a sale on eggs and he's getting low. Grampy eats four eggs on english muffins every morning. Sometimes he throws some fried bologna and processed cheese on the whole mess. Or he scrambles them with bacon and hashbrowns, or makes an omelet. He does love him some eggs. Now the fact that he's going on 88 years old and has eaten like that for most of his adult life should give the American Heart Association pause. At the very least they should re-think the whole cholesterol scam and get off our meat and cheese-eating butts. Again...I digress.

Mike arranged them in order of expiration

So Grampy calls me....needing eggs, right? I go on over. Far be it from me to deny the man one of the few pleasures he has left in life...eating too much fat and cholesterol-ridden food. I find him firmly ensconced in front of the TV finishing his 12^th cup of coffee of the morning and I shout “Hi Dad. I'm going for your eggs!” He nods at me as I grab the coupons off his kitchen table and on the way out the door he hollers at me with instructions to get 8 dozen...the limit on eggs for 99 cents. I halt in my tracks and back up to the kitchen. “What?” I say “8 DOZEN?” That's (and I quickly do the math on my fingers) 96 eggs for crying out loud! Why in the world do you need that many eggs all at one time? It's not like the stores are closing down tomorrow!” He's clearly disgusted with me and simply states “Because they're ON SALE! And the sale ends Tuesday!” At that I reach over to his refrigerator and pull open the door, saying “Do you even have room in here for 8 dozen...what the heck?!” Much to my amazement there were 12 dozen eggs in there already (see photo above), neatly stacked along the right side of the fridge and patiently awaiting their fate. “Dad! You have 12 dozen in here already! I can't even do the math for how many eggs that is and you want to add 8 dozen MORE?!” He was non-plussed, gave me his most sincere stink-eye, repeated slowly “THEY. ARE. ON. SALE!”....and wandered off down the hall muttering to “mama” about not being able to drive anymore and what the hell is he supposed to do when all he wants are a few eggs. “Mama” of course, is his late wife, my mother in law, with whom he holds an ongoing conversation all day. Mostly they talk about their dead dog, Mugsy, and the lousy weather but I have many memories of their lively shouting matches when she was still alive and I think he enjoys her more now that she's passed...she doesn't talk back. But again, I digress. As I headed toward the door to go shopping, I could feel the sting of her own post-mortem disapproval aimed at me, so I did the only thing I could. I called my husband, Grampy's son and passed it off on him.

Eating breakfast, Grampy explains why he needs more eggs.

Mike is Grampy's warden as well as his savior. Without his son, Mike, Grampy would be in a world of hurt. Heck, Grampy would be in a nursing home griping at the indifferent staff and tripping innocent little old ladies walking down the hallways in their blue robes and frizzled pink hair. Mike is made of sterner stuff than I am and immediately asked me to hand the phone to his dad. He patiently explained to his dad about the expiration dates on egg cartons and told Tex there would be no more eggs until he ate most of what he already had. Grampy hung up the phone crest-fallen. Defeated. It broke my heart. I left the house and came back an hour later with four dozen eggs...a compromise, a peace offering, a gesture of my affection. (shhh....don't tell Mike) He was asleep in his recliner. An almost-empty plate of scrambled eggs on his lap, a bit of egg-goo stuck to his bottom lip and a smile of pure bliss on his face.

Who am I to stand between an old man and his love of breakfast?