“Oh, Auntie Geraldine, I miss him.”
“Yup,” Geraldine said. “His absence is profound.”
“He was such a dear little grump. I’m thinking I’m going to up the ante on trying to put more joy in the world. In his grumpy little bastard honor.”
“Atta girl,” Geraldine said. She dabbed at her eyes with the end of her robe’s sash. “You know, I get the feeling he’s watching from Grumpy Little Bastard Heaven, and I think he’s really happy, Lala.”
They nodded and sipped their drinks. They paused, letting themselves enjoy the warm California sunshine, each savoring a special memory of Yootza.
Lala was reliving the first moment she saw Yootza at the shelter in New York City and his pronounced, crooked underbite immediately stole her heart.
Geraldine was recalling that funny, adorable, terrifying time Yootza mistook her left index finger for a Snausage.
There will be a two-pronged lead-in to this blog entry. Here’s the first one: When I do readings for my novel, or when I answer Q&As for websites, I’m often asked how much of Lala’s story is autobiographical. My answer, as part of my ongoing attempt to make the audience giggle (which I love to…
