In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “A Dog Named Bob.”
“Bob! Bob! Come and get it, boy!”
I round the corner, bumping against the edge just in time to see Nana pouring syrup all over the contents of a plate. One of the floral-patterned china plates, no less.
“Morning, Nana,” I call to her, attempting to usher her away from the mess on the floor, gently prying the syrup jar from her firm grip and wiping the edge before replacing the cap.
She furrows her brow at me and shakes an arthritic finger at me. “And what’s good about it?”
“Well, the birds are out singing, the flowers are blooming and there’s plenty of ink to be had for your drawings,” I replied.
“Heh,” she scoffed. “Those damn blue-jays give me a headache with all their squawking. Chased away the goldfinches yesterday. Harassed the cardinals the day before that. Mailman almost couldn’t get to the mailbox day before that for all their swooping and carrying on. You know how important it is I get the mail every day. Can’t let one of Henry’s letters go unanswered.”
I smiled at her familiar rant. “Oh, Nana, I’m sure Poppy would love to hear about how the blue-jays try to interfere with the mail.”
She shook her head as I turned, pouring a cup of coffee and placing it in front of her. “Not likely. He takes his job as postmaster real serious. Won’t stand for any shenanigans when he’s home and back in charge.” Once she swiveled in her chair to face the steaming black brew I swiftly lifted the plate and spun around to block her view as I emptied it into the sink. Spaghetti, bread, vegetables and banana, all coated in thick maple syrup, slid off the plate and landed as a congealed pile in the sink.
“Child, what on earth are you doing with Bob’s breakfast? I just set that down for him!” Nana was standing next to me, having moved silently across the kitchen to inspect my actions.
“Nana, I think he already had his fill. See, he’s just setting in the corner now, having a nap. And I can’t leave it on the floor with the cat and Joseph crawling around.” I held my breath and forced a smile, praying she would go back and sit down, that we would not start the morning with another fit of dementia-fueled rage.
“Humph,” she said. She crossed the kitchen to pat the stuffed dog that was placed on a dog bed in the corner, then returned to her coffee.
I released my breath, poured myself a cup of coffee and smiled weakly as I sat next to her. A good morning, indeed.