How the Week Goes ...

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I cannot begin to describe the dislike I have for being on my own with The Missus Herself out in California. I like having somebody around to talk with, or not talk with, as the mood strikes either of us. With no more felines on station, I don't even have that going for me.

I know, I know, I could get another cat or two, were it something not absolutely banned by my better half. Her reasoning is sound, it's tough to lose them and she'd rather spare herself having to go through that again. Together we've weathered the loss of four of our feline companions. While the first was particularly rough, as Tiger was so young, it did not get easier.

At my age I view it as similar to what would I do if, heaven forbid, something were to happen to The Missus Herself? I would not remarry, nothing could replace her. Absolutely nothing.

We had our last cat, Anya, for nearly twenty years. We got to know each other's idiosyncrasies, moods, likes and dislikes, and all manner of things. Some have mentioned adopting a senior cat, a feline who perhaps lost his/her humans and is stuck at the shelter. As much as the idea appeals to me, The Missus Herself has said, in no uncertain terms, "No more."

So yeah, it gets lonely at Chez Sarge, especially as the days grow short and the temperature begins to venture into those numbers which are somewhat uncomfortable. While it ain't cold yet, the late nights and early mornings are a bit brisk. I'm not ready for that, not quite yet.

But, she returns next week and all (hopefully) will be well.

I have grandchildren, eight in fact. They range in age from twenty-two months old to sixteen years old. Three boys, five girls, and yes, the granddaughters have me wrapped around their little fingers, they know grandpa is a sucker for a cute smile.

I get to talk with my grandson Roberto a lot. His Mom, The Nuke, likes to stay in touch and her boys like seeing and talking to their grandparents. Grandson Finnegan, the youngest of the grandsons (in fact the youngest of them all), is just starting to talk. So while he will chatter away, he's not really communicating yet. That is, when Grandpa tries to employ his subtle wit, Finnegan will just stare at me.

Hhmm, come to think of it, I get that from a lot of people, not just Finnegan.

Anyhoo, Roberto loves to roughhouse. If I'm not paying attention, he will try a flying body block on me, knocking me ass over teakettle if I'm not prepared for it. Of course, he finds that hysterical. As do I, as long as the fall wasn't too painful. (I am getting up there ya know.)

Now thing is, Roberto has two sets of grandparents, Tuttle's dad apparently is not a big fan of being tackled, abused, or beaten on by his four year old grandson. Something I "enjoy," to a certain extent. So guess who has to make up for that when he visits?

Yup, Your Humble Scribe. Not that I mind, much. But visits to Maryland are starting to remind me of my very brief involvement in college football ...

I went out for the team as a walk-on, practices were rather fun until we had tackling drill. I was a rather smallish linebacker. More of a speed bump really.

The running back was a rather big fellow, bit bigger than me as a matter of fact. When the coach blew his whistle, the big fella started running at me. My brain registered the size disparity and I realized that my chances of bringing him down with a standard tackle were rather akin to trying to stop a rhinoceros with a .22 short round.

But if you hit them in just the right place ...

I kinda threw myself at his feet, figured I'd get tangled up in his wheels, so to speak, and at least make him stumble.

Well, I managed to hit the rhino just right, he went down in a heap. He popped up and said, "Nice tackle!"

I sort of groaned, nodded, and hobbled off to the locker room to turn in my equipment.

Visits to Roberto's house can be kinda like that, leaving me bruised and battered. Fortunately, his parents will get him to stop beating me up from time to time. Allows me to recover a bit before heading back into the lists.

But man, do I love wrestling with my grandsons. Now that there are two of 'em down in Maryland, I think I need to start getting sneakier! Soon they will be able to coordinate their attacks (or be-tacks as Roberto calls them) and I won't stand a chance.

But it's better'n being alone, innit?