The Husband came out to the porch about 6 o'clock tonight, very nearly dancing with excitement. "Good news!" he announced. "Duffy's going home! To-NIGHT!" Our son was on his way to get the beast.
I felt like dancing a little jig, myself!
Went right inside and started washing out his messy "wet" cat food bowl and his dry cat food bowl, and reclaimed the dessert bowl he's been using for a water bowl, and gathered up his belongings. We saved the cleaning of Duffy's luxury litter box (complete with mood lighting, and a ramp for his highness' convenience) for The Son to do.
Not gonna lie . . . I won't miss Duffy.
But I love his name. (Not that we used it; we called him many other names.)
I always wondered how they came up with "Duffy." It was a couple of months before the idea occurred to me that he probably got it from Grandad.
Son #2 and Grandad were tight. My dad loved babies. He and my mother babysat all of the grandchildren, but #2 was the last baby in the house, and Daddy doted on him.
Daddy was goofy as hell when he wanted to be. He irked the crap out of my mother with his shenanigans. One of his favorite things to do was to answer the phone crazy, and his favorite crazy phone answer was, "Duffy's Tavern. Duffy ain't here."
Hah! Here's to you, Daddy.
Duffy ain't here! :)
No comments:
Post a Comment