Adventures in Alzheimers: Crickets Make Great Pets

When Mike has to go out of town on business it's usually for a week and it always means several things: 1. I have to remember to feed and water the animals. (God help me) . 2. I go to sleep with several lights on in the house all night, so any intruders will think the fully armed occupant inside is also an insomniac.  3. I  have full Grampy Duty. That means a daily visit to see him, taking him shopping, making sure he's taking his pills, listening to his same old stories again. And again.  Etc.

Grampy's Pet Cricket

So Friday I stopped by after work. He started in complaining about a cricket that had moved in. "Ever since you and Mike put in this new carpet, a cricket has been living here!  I've looked high and low and I can't find the damn thing!"  I'm used to his fantasies so I quickly changed the subject. I randomly inquired as to the date of one of the photos on the wall of mom. ". That's another thing " he went on complaining, "where the hell IS mom? I haven't seen her in years!" "Um. Yeah....." I said "dad she died". He  looked off into the distance for a minute then said " yeah, that's right. 1997 she died." Correct., dad. Then, rather excitedly he added "But she left me years before that and moved back into that house on Avenue A. Well, we had some good years together and I guess that's that. "  OK none of that is true but we don't quibble over the past. We let him believe whatever he wants. No harm, no foul. By tomorrow he'll believe she joined a Romanian circus and took up with the tattooed man. 

So we were talking and reminiscing about his delusional past and all of a sudden I heard it. The cricket!  "See?" He looked hard at me and ground his dentures for a second then whispered "There's my little cricket,"  Well I have been on the receiving end of this particular cricket before and it was clearly the chirp of a dying battery from a smoke alarm. I glanced at the alarm in the hallway (which was brand new) then decided to do what I usually do, tell Mike and make him fix it. Mike was out of town so my son Shane is next in line and always willing to help but he was working. My son in law Paul was in town and he came over to help. Kate my 14 year old granddaughter was with him. Grampy has known Paul for 20 years, nevertheless I introduced him to both Paul and Kate. He shook Paul's hand with a "pleased to meet ya", then, after a minute recognized him, but had no idea who Kate was. (He later asked me who that nice young married couple were that had come to visit. I told him they were the king and queen of Romania. No harm. No foul. )

Grampy told Paul all about the cricket. "yeah" he said " Ever since mama left, it's just me living in this little house. Me and that damn cricket. I yell at him to get out from time to time. I tell him he's not welcome here! But he's still here keeping me company. Just me and that cricket. "  By the time Grampy was done with his story, Paul had located and replaced the faulty battery. Problem solved. Chirping over. Cricket dead. So Now  it's just Grampy in that house. Just Grampy all alone again... 

I'm thinking about putting that battery back in.

#alzheimersfunny #dementiafunny #grandpaalzheimers

Adventures in Alzheimer's: Home Sweet? Home

Mom (Bernie) the bathing beauty in the 1950's

Bernadine Trepanier Berthiaume (known as Bernie), Grampy's late wife, was a 4' 10", red-headed spitfire of a woman who could cuss like a soldier, cook Italian food like there was no tomorrow, and throw a mean left hook—all at the same time. She was also a charter member of the "Function Over Form" home decorating movement. She was proud of her mismatched J.C Penneys furniture and dime store knick knacks, and because she and Grampy were both chain smokers, she attempted to protect her belongings from the constant yellow tar residue that would eventually settle on them.  Both of her orange glass living room lamps possessed, we assume, perfectly lovely lamp shades. But she fiercely preserved each shade by wrapping it in copious amounts of paper towel, then finishing it off with layers of Saran Wrap...to protect the paper towels of course. Eventually the Saran Wrap/Paper towel combo would yellow and crack, and she'd have to replace it. But by golly, 40 years later that lampshade underneath was still brand new and spanking clean...albeit never ever to be seen. Her avocado green sofa and orange/brown flowered love seat were the cats pajamas when she purchased them in 1950, and still looked fantastic in 1995 underneath the tattered, old multi-colored afghans and bath towels that permanently covered them up. I thought her decor was hilarious and laughed at her the first time she showed me around her home, only to be met with an icy scowl. She really thought she was normal.

Bernie and Tex 1969, Lancaster, CA

I will never forget her large maple knick knack shelf that always held a prominent place on the living room wall wherever she lived. Like all her living room furniture, it was Early American design, the only style she thought existed. On this three-shelfed spindle-edged wonder she displayed her treasures; a chipped ceramic bulldog, a small vase of dusty, plastic red roses, a photo of my husband at 19 in his Navy uniform, and other inexpensive tchotskes. But front and center on the middle shelf was her most prized objet d'art, her little fat brown ceramic Buddah. She soberly told me when she showed it to me that if you rub the Buddha's belly, good luck would surely come your way. I noticed that over the years she'd rubbed the paint right off that Buddah's belly. I started to chuckle at this, forgetting who I was talking to, only to once again be on the receiving end of her scornful stare. 

Bernie holding her first grandchild, Kevin 1970

Yes, Bernie was devoutly Superstitious with just enough Catholic in her to justify her playing Bingo at the local parish on Saturday nights. As odd as she was, I quickly learned to stifle any laughter aimed at her eccentricities for fear she'd cast some bad mojo on me. So I was careful to always mock her BEHIND her back. Don't rock an empty rocking chair, don't leave a hairbrush on the kitchen table, don't walk under a ladder or open an umbrella in the house and "for Gawds sake don't break a mirror". You remember the age-old adage, "Find a pin, pick it up and all the day you'll have good luck" Bernie translated that into "Find a penny, pick it up" and she left no found penny unturned. After she passed away we were packing up her belongings and I picked up her purse. It must have weighed 15 pounds. "Geez Louise!" I laughed,  "If the cancer hadn't killed her, the weight of this dang purse she carried everywhere would have," there were at least 500 pennies in a small bag inside that purse. Her entire life's findings, no doubt.  

She actually WAS lucky in at least one aspect of her life...gambling. It was her greatest passion, and moving to Laughlin, Nevada in her golden years was the fulfillment of her life's dream. She treated gambling like a full time job. She drove herself into town every morning, straight to her favorite casino, Sam's Town, where she played the quarter slots, Keno and Bingo. By 5pm she'd clock out and drive herself on home. She was a favorite of the management and staff at Sam's Town, who knew her by name and comped her all her meals and ever-present cups of coffee. Tex laughed at her and told her when they moved to the desert that they could NOT afford for her to gamble their retirement savings away and that there would be NO money from him for her addiction. She snapped her nicotine-stained fingers at that and never asked him for a dime.

She won enough on her own to keep going, but we never really knew how lucky she was till after she died. On her deathbed, weak as a bowl of hospital jello, she motioned for Mike to come near to her as she whispered into his ear, "Money. Money". We had no idea what she meant but would soon find out. As we were going through her closet after her death, Tex was gobsmacked to find a crumpled paper bag with more than $60,000 in cash inside. She was trying to tell Mike to take the money—her rainy day gambling winnings. God love her. Well Tex kept the money, but how like her that even from the grave she got the last laugh.

Adventures in Alzheimers - Stuck in a jam...

One of several points of contention between me and Tex for the last 3 years has been the tangerine tree in his back yard. Technically it's not in HIS backyard. Technically do you call a 15'x4' plot of dead grass behind your single-wide a backyard? You see, there are no fences in the Green Acres Senior Mobile Home Park. No delineation of property lines, so one can only estimate their boundaries. But Tex, as well as his neighbor, are comfortable with the tree's location and ownership is assumed to be on the latter's adjoining postage stamp yard.

The tangerine tree half-picked

Every year, come December, the tree bears copious amounts of fruit. And every year the holiday season is heralded in by the grocery bags full of tangerines that Mike brings home after every visit to see his dad. And every year I make a good supply of tangerine marmalade from which Grampy, (my #1 fan), gets several jars.

Year before last I asked him if his neighbor minds the fact that he picks all those tangerines off his tree. He just snorted at me and proclaimed "That colored fella that owns that tree? he said he wants nuthin' to do with the tangerines." Subject closed. Mike and I gave up years ago trying to bring his dad into a politically correct 21st century. He means no racial slur and actually he's best friends with his neighbor. To him calling a black man a colored fella is like calling a tomato a tomahto.

This last January I noticed a ladder leaning up against the tree one day when I went to visit Tex. I questioned him. "Dad are you climbing a ladder to get those tangerines?" For a minute he forgot there even was a tangerine tree and stared at me blankly. He snapped out of the fog shortly and barked" Well of course! How else am I gonna get the ones high up?" I replied "No, dad. Mike and I do NOT want you climbing up in that tree. Let me get some grandkids and we'll come over here and pick that tree for you". He didn't reply, just walked away. But shortly after I got home he called. "Cathy that colored fellow does NOT want you or the kids messing with his tree. Don't come over here to pick tangerines." Criminy Christmas I thought, is that colored guy even real? I said "dad I I don't give a rats patootie about those tangerines. I just don't want you climbing up there on that ladder. You just had surgery and got out of the hospital not three weeks ago". "Cathy I don't know what the hell you're talking about. I've never had surgery in my life." And he hung up the phone.

pile of leaves Grampy felt a need to cover up

The next day Mike and I joined forces and drove over to see Grampy. He met us at the back door. he had two more bags of tangerines to give us stashed under his back stoop, carefully covered up by towels. I asked him why he was hiding them under the stairs and, glancing surreptitiously up and down the trailer park street he mumbled, "You just can't trust these old people. They like to steal".

I pressed him for more information. "Dad are you certain your neighbor doesn't mind you taking his tangerines?" He frowned at me like I'd never brought it up before and said "Aw hell. I do it at midnight. he doesn't even know I'm up in his tree". Mike and I both rolled our eyes in frustration and I let go with "Dad it's bad enough you're climbing up a ladder but in the DARK!? He shushed me. "No I'm safe. I tie a rope around my waist then tie it to the ladder and loop it over a high tree branch so I won't fall". And with that he toddled back into the house. Hand to God I'm not embellishing here. With visions of a scrawny 5 foot-nuthin old man dangling from a fruit tree at midnight Mike and I marched into the house after him. "But dad. dad NO you really can't do that!" Mike implored. Again with the shushing and then a firm dismissal as he turned on the TV. "Bonanza's starting. Cathy why don't you and Mike take those tangerines home and make me some marmalade. I sure like it." Game over. It was time to leave and with a heavy sigh we headed toward the door, Grampy turned and yelled at my retreating back "And make some for that colored guy next door. He likes it too!"

The House that Tex Built (part 2)

Tex all dolled up and happy to be Ladybug's pillow

Tex's little house in the desert is now almost 60 years old and noticeably empty. Looters have foraged through the house, broken the windows, ripped off a lot of the knotty pine paneling and generally trashed the place. We heard it was destined soon to be demolished.

So we called Grampy at 8am on a beautiful June Saturday morning. Grampy was on his fifth pot of coffee by then. “Dad you want to go to Lancaster with us today and see the old house on Avenue A?” “What?” he said “See an old horse they put away? What the hell are you talking about?!” “No” Mike said “Go take a drive down Avenue A and see the old house you built. It's deserted now so let's go take a look”. “ Well I guess I can go. OK” he said.

We went to pick him up. His face was scrubbed and the little hair he has left on his head was properly gelled and combed straight back. He had on his good pair of cowboy boots and his wife's old Sam's Town jacket she won in Laughlin back in 1987—he was ready to roll. As we helped him into the back seat of the van he said “Can we go by and get lunch at the Casa Roma?” The Casa Roma was an Italian restaurant there in the 50's that was owned by his good friend, Arthur and his Italian family. Arthur died many, many moons ago. The restaurant has changed hands several times and is no longer a restaurant, but a biker bar inhabited by bearded, tattooed, beer guzzling, ruffians....who may or may not like Italian food—but they sure ain't getting any there. But to Tex, the Casa Roma is frozen in time and he fully expected it to still be thriving, still painted bright red and green and still serving the best damn pizza this side of Chicago. I broke the news to him gently. He just sighed, stared out the window and shook his head back and forth. Unfortunately, he's getting used to news like this.

Mike peeking in the front window

Original linoleum on the kitchen wall

Knotty pine living room and wet bar

We drove the one and half hours it takes to get there, straight through the desert to the middle-of-nowhere house on Avenue A. After 60 years it is, not so surprisingly, still in the middle of nowhere with only tumbleweeds and rattlesnakes to watch it's slow deterioration. We parked in the dirt in the front yard and as we stepped out of the car, into the silence of the desert wind, I watched Grampy's face closely, looking for signs of alarm and sorrow. The house is deserted, dilapidated and has been picked over by desert salvagers. We walked around to the back and found the old kitchen door swinging loosely on one hinge. As we walked into the house, across the floor, side-stepping the debris, Mike observed; “This house looks so much smaller than I remember it”. Grampy was silent, looking at the tattered walls and the tiny kitchen sink. The original stove and oven were still there, long in a state of disrepair. I wondered how my mother in law ever managed to feed four hungry men in that miniscule space. We moved into the living room, the pride and joy of the house. Mike and I exclaimed over the genuine knotty pine paneling (what was left of it), the rock fireplace the hand-made hammered tin switch plates on every light fixture. The original drapes were still there as well, dusty but surprisingly intact. Grampy was silent as we surveyed the neglected living room, every piece of paneling and every rock in the fireplace put there by him all those many years ago.

We made our way to the kid's room. It was hard to believe that three growing boys all slept in that little room, and harder yet to believe the original wallpaper that Tex had hung there for was still there! Oh it was sure enough tattered and water-stained but it was there, 50's style astronauts and rockets cascading across the room...offering Grampy and Mike a blast from the past. (pun intended)

Mike looking at the astronaut wallpaper

Grampy stoically took that walk down memory lane that day, pretty quiet throughout the whole ordeal.  As they walked along Mike would reminisce with him over some of their past adventures; “Dad remember that big hole out back that we piled high with scrap lumber? Remember that?” and Tex would solemnly nod up and down. “Dad here's the spot where we butchered chickens. Remember how we boys hated plucking those feathers? Remember dad?” “Yup” he'd reply, moving on. When we'd seen it all we stopped to take one last photo of Grampy and the house he built then got into the van and drove off into the sunset.

Last photo of Grampy and the house he built

They say you can't go home and I expect we all realized it first-hand that day. As we ate our lunch at Marie Callenders (a poor substitute for the fine Italian dining at Casa Roma) we talked about everything BUT that house. Mike and Grampy knew they'd never see it again. No use crying over spilled milk. Grampy has learned many times over the course of his advancing years that all of life is transient and brief. But I suspect he tucked away, in some corner of his mind, his memories of that old house and his life back then when he was a strapping young man with no gray in his hair and no arthritis in his joints. When he didn't have to depend on his son to mow his lawn, write his rent check every month , take him shopping and to his doctor appointments. And I suspect he brings those memories out for inspection more often than most as he sits in his recliner alone, living out the sunset years of his life.

 “Time it was and what a time it was. It was a time of innocence a time of consequences. Long ago, it must be. I have a photograph. Preserve your memories, they're all that's left you”. ~Simon & Garfunkel

The House That Tex Built (part 1)

Back in 1954, Grampy built a small house in the Mojave Desert—isolated as all get-out, smack dab in the middle of nowhere. This was his dream home and his dream location. Never mind that he had a city-bred wife who hated the country and three school age hooligan boys who would find more mischief in the sandy hills of the Antelope Valley than their mother could ever have imagined.

Bernie and Tex in the Knotty Pine living room 1954

He built it with love, entirely by hand and all by himself. It was a project he could be proud of. Bernie (his wife) was just thankful and relieved that he included an indoor outhouse. There were two small bedrooms, a kitchen so miniscule you could spread out your arms and touch two walls, a dining room, one serviceable bathroom and a nice sized living room with a large wet-bar, rock fireplace and knotty pine paneling all around. Tex finished the outside of the tiny house with pink paint and white gingerbread trim. He put up astronaut wallpaper in the bedroom the three boys shared and built-in cabinets in the master bedroom. The kitchen was tastefully finished with green and pink linoleum tiles. But the knotty pine living room was Tex's piece de resistance with the large wood bar, rustic rock fireplace and hammered steel switchplates and wall decorations he made himself during his lunch hours at the sheet metal plant he worked at. It was truly a house of the 50's and one I'd proudly pin to my Pinterest boards.

Hand made switchplates are throughout the house

The family lived there for 9 years...a goodly amount of time for those three boys to wreak havoc on the desert wildlife, continually frighten their mother with countless snakes and spiders, shoot a bushel of crows with their BB guns and long enough for Bernie to crack (I'm talking certifiable nervous breakdown), threaten D-I-V-O-R-C-E and insist they move back into town. So Tex reluctantly sold the gingerbread house, packed up all their belongings, and moved the whole kit and kaboodle back into the city.

But oh, those years in the desert were the halcyon days of Grampy's life. During that time, he built up a good-sized chicken ranch and managed to compile so much salvage lumber he could easily have built another two houses with it. He was in his element there, with no noisy and nosy neighbors to interfere, and only his own honery brood to fuss and holler at —which he did at the top of his lungs.

Tex always pined for that little house in the desert and was never the same after they left. He always lived in some house in some town, with neighbors he hated, the rest of his days and even now. And being 88 years old, he's not likely going to be moving to an isolated spot in the middle of nowhere again.

And that little house? I like to think it always pined for Tex as well. None of the owners over the ensuing years could have loved it and cared for it the way he did. We know they didn't because, as adults, Mike and I would drive down that dusty road once in a blue moon to take a look at it. It gently and steadily fell into a state of disrepair. Oh that sad little, once happy house. But time marches on and houses and humans alike get old and tired. Their roofs get windblown, joints get creaky, and their floors fall in. 

But sometimes I sit and listen to Grampy as he recounts his time in the 50's - building and living in that little house in the desert. He seems almost happy, and surprisingly young again. Well maybe that's the most we can expect in our old age—memories and smiles, and someone to share them with.

Adventures in Dementia

Grampy in 2002. I like this photo

Grampy's mind has been failing for quite awhile now. When he had the quadruple by-pass in 1997 the doctor showed us an MRI image of his brain. “See all those spotty things? Those are calcium deposits on his brain. Those will only get worse” he said as he looked at us with pity. Then, shaking his head, “If he'll quit smoking right now, he could have another 10 years left”. The joke's on you, doc. Grampy didn't quit smoking till 2004 and here we are 14 years after the by-pass and he's still 'ornry and vertical.

But his mind is failing. He can't remember how to work the TV remote when all he as to do is push “Power On” and “Power Off”. He'll swear up and down that Mike didn't take him shopping the day before and Mike has to show him the receipt for his groceries that is in his wallet. He can't remember who any of his great-grandchildren are anymore and has to ask “Now which one are you? Who do you belong to?” and I can tell he's wondering if they are imposters cause he's never seen them before. He looked me up and down the other day and said “Cathy. When did you get fat?” “Well Dad,” I sighed “I've always been fat.” He gave me his stink-eye and brushed me away, muttering something about smart-ass kids...

This is what Grampy's brain looks like...psychedelic!

Mike is very patient with his dad. He sees him several times a week and talks to him every day. But I can tell it hurts him as his dad is more cranky, more insulting and more disagreeable with his son than he's ever been. I guess that's what dementia does. Amplifies the irritability. So I suggested we take Grampy to the doctor and get medical confirmation on what ails him. I thought that maybe a firm diagnosis and some medical support would help Mike not to take it so personally when his dad cusses at him because Mike has arranged his medicines in his pill case and there's “too damn many pills and what are you doing to me?!”

Mike organizes Grampy's pills...

So off to Dr. Marsha we go. She's not a real doctor. She's a Nurse Practitioner. But Grampy likes her, she's got blonde hair and blue eyes and he calls her a doctor and thinks she's “real purdy” — and she's the only medical professional he doesn't yell at so we have opted for peace over diploma. Marsha likes Grampy too. Mike's taken him to see her about 6 times now for various and sundry ailments and he's always on his best behavior so she thinks he's a sweet old man. We were ushered into an exam room and a cute, young African-American nurse came in and took his vitals. Grampy was asking her about “that other colored nurse that works here”....she finished up without a word while I stood there in embarrassment. I was really hoping she'd deck him. But no. Finally (fake Dr.) Marsha showed up. We brought up the problem of loss of memory and how he recently called us saying he'd woken up that morning in his recliner and couldn't remember where he'd been for the last two days at all and how that very morning he didn't remember we have a dog although I've taken the puppy over there three times to visit him. She looked at Grampy with affection then at us with skepticism. She said she was going to do some “tests” and sent us out of the room. We stood right outside the door so we could hear everything she said. She proceeded to ask Grampy a list of questions like “What is the year? Who is the president? What are your children's names?, etc.” It took five minutes. I guess she sent us out of the room so we wouldn't answer for him. I don't know. Then she called us back in and read the checklist and his rating on her computer. “Yes, your dad has mild memory loss”, she said. “He thought the year was 1912. Ha ha ha. I'm giving you a prescription for more pills. No wait... two prescriptions for two more pills.” Then she proceeded to further patronize us by reminding us to check on him regularly, glanced at her watch and was clearly finished with us.

So we are on our own with Grampy. We'll do some research. I'll google. We'll ask around and find out how other caretakers handle their aging parents. We'll listen as Grampy complains about two more pills he's supposed to take and Mike will take the blame for countless other things, like why it's Tuesday today when he thought it was Tuesday yesterday. And I'd better start exercising and eating healthy cause Lord knows by the time I need it, the available medical help will only be less effective and more ignorant.

Oh Marsha, Marsha, Marsha....You don't know Grampy. You're just a pill pusher with a checklist. And truth be told, you're really not all that pretty.

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.