My memory of my Papa tonight is amped up. I posted a picture of some roses in my yard and my cousin referenced the roses he grew. Papa was my Mom's dad.
Papa smoked a pipe. In my little 6-year-old memory, Papa was about 7 feet tall. He was a kind man. He had a dog named Peppy. He would feed good food to Peppy. In Dad's mind, it was like in the movie "Moonstruck" when Olympia Dukakis tells her father-in-law "old man, if you feed those dogs another piece of my food, I'm gonna kick you 'til you're dead!"
My Dad never really felt that, but he also never understood the love between Peppy and Papa. When Papa died suddenly around Easter of 1981, Peppy went crazy. He just wanted Papa back. So did I.
Peppy stood at the door and waited for Papa to come home. He was never the same.
I always cook extra meat to feed my dogs. I know it's nuts. I think there is something to it beyond my weakness as a dog owner. I think, maybe, with every scrap, I'm channeling Papa. I hope he and Peppy are hanging tight now. I am confident, after all these years, Papa is still sneaking Peppy steak in the afterlife. I certainly hope so.
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