The other week, the one resthome resident who wants to die was telling me and her (Ghanaian) private aide that back when she was a little baby back in the 1920s, her parents bought her a little white puppy and would wheel her around in the perambulator with it.
And one day, they opened up the perambulator, and she had smothered it.
"Did they ever let you get a dog again?", I was like.
"No," she was like.
. . .
Since then, too, when I see her and she asks me how I'm doing, a few times I've been like, "Eh, I could be better, but at least I accidentally didn't kill a puppy today."
She laughs at that.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment