This past Saturday I took Sammy to see Grandma. That same day also happened to be my aunt's birthday, so the convoy included me, my mom, Sammy D and my aunt Stephanie.
Upon our arrival, my grandma was tickled pink that her old boy had come for a visit. "Nelson!" she shouted at her husband, "Look who came for a visit." Glazing over her daughter the birthday girl, my grandma Alice reached for Sammy. "There's my boy!" she exclaimed, squeezing him. "Oh look he remembers me" she said as he tried desperately and vainly to escape her grip.
Something akin, I guess, to a maternal instinct washed over me and I went to loosen her choke hold on Sammy. I could tell that he was confused and a little frightened. I convinced grandma that she should let Sammy explore her room and I sat down on her bed and told her all about how we get on together. I left out the part about me blogging about his tongue.
"Did I ever tell you how he got his name?" she asked me.
"Well, you told me that there wasn't anything else TO name a brown-faced cat with one good eye."
"That's right."
"And also because he's Jewish, right grandma?"
I told her about the yarn and skitter critters I have for him, I shared our nightly petting and snuggle ritual. I even went as far as to proudly brag about the time when Sammy D. Jr punched a dog in the face. She laughed and told me about another time he did the same to a BIG dog at the vet. We bonded over that, I guess.
I've never been close with my Grandma Alice. She's not the nicest lady (and is also a *little* racist) and in her younger days was flat out mean. My mom is hesitant to go into much detail, but I've heard stories of my mom and her siblings being beat so bad they required a trip to the hospital. That the four of her children survived and have any sort of desire to keep a relationship with her is amazing.
And what is more amazing is that in that hard, dark, ex-alcoholic heart of hers she has the capacity to love a living thing.
I mean, LOOK at that face.
Upon our arrival, my grandma was tickled pink that her old boy had come for a visit. "Nelson!" she shouted at her husband, "Look who came for a visit." Glazing over her daughter the birthday girl, my grandma Alice reached for Sammy. "There's my boy!" she exclaimed, squeezing him. "Oh look he remembers me" she said as he tried desperately and vainly to escape her grip.
Something akin, I guess, to a maternal instinct washed over me and I went to loosen her choke hold on Sammy. I could tell that he was confused and a little frightened. I convinced grandma that she should let Sammy explore her room and I sat down on her bed and told her all about how we get on together. I left out the part about me blogging about his tongue.
"Did I ever tell you how he got his name?" she asked me.
"Well, you told me that there wasn't anything else TO name a brown-faced cat with one good eye."
"That's right."
"And also because he's Jewish, right grandma?"
I told her about the yarn and skitter critters I have for him, I shared our nightly petting and snuggle ritual. I even went as far as to proudly brag about the time when Sammy D. Jr punched a dog in the face. She laughed and told me about another time he did the same to a BIG dog at the vet. We bonded over that, I guess.
I've never been close with my Grandma Alice. She's not the nicest lady (and is also a *little* racist) and in her younger days was flat out mean. My mom is hesitant to go into much detail, but I've heard stories of my mom and her siblings being beat so bad they required a trip to the hospital. That the four of her children survived and have any sort of desire to keep a relationship with her is amazing.
And what is more amazing is that in that hard, dark, ex-alcoholic heart of hers she has the capacity to love a living thing.
I mean, LOOK at that face.
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