When I get to be 85 I want you to remind me what a pain in the ass my mother was and perhaps that will help me snap out of whatever craziness I’m going through.

Let me start by saying, I am a father’s daughter, my relationship with my mother is evolving…even a decade later.  I’ve learned a lot from her, especially what not to do, but some of it is incredibly valuable.  Like drinking Amaretto at breakfast, just sayin.

I have been broaching the subject of bringing the dogs on Sunday mornings for, oh five years, but she insists that I don’t, so I didn’t. There are two main reasons why, first the housing authority doesn’t allow tenants to own dogs unless they are service dogs and second there is some left over resentment about something himself did, TEN YEARS AGO.

People of my mother’s generation are steadfast in their rule following, they don’t waver.  People of my generation broke damn near every rule and somehow the earth didn’t open up and swallow us.  My argument; the dogs don’t live here they are just visiting.  Her argument; but what if someone sees them, they will throw me out and I will be homeless…really? Homeless?  While the guys are cursing and smoking in the screened in standalone porch out back and the people on the fifth floor got caught jamming a few extra people into their apartment, you’re going to be homeless because the dogs come to visit?  I let it go, several times…

Himself once brought Tootsie with him when he came down to see my mother about something or other.  Tootsie was barely out of puppy stage and himself was in a bit of a hurry to get out and back to his…other preoccupation.  So needless to say he didn’t follow the golden rule of bringing a puppy somewhere new by first making sure she was absolutely positively empty..if you know what I mean.  In she came, over to a particular corner of the room she went and well she went…as in solid went.  My mother was furious but out of the other side of her mouth she laughs about never having seen himself move so fast.  So for the next ten years she told the story and forbid me bringing the dogs.  I let it go, several times…

Fast forward a decade and the universe began to conspire with me.  Steps were becoming an issue for Mom so she was going to have to think twice about coming to my house, going any further than the mail box or a doctor visit was no longer appealing to her and then her Lina died.  Her Lina. That little shit of a pit bull left her earlier this year and she took it pretty hard.  So I ever so casually asked if I could bring poor Toto over to see Gramma.  I’m not exactly sure she said yes, but she didn’t say no…my generation loves a good loophole.

For the last several weeks Toti Nonna has been visiting Gramma on Sunday morning.  Gramma puts out a water bowl in the kitchen and has a little Tupperware full of treats.  I allow her to give only three because Toti Nonna is getting too damn fat…they put their heads together about just how mean I am as a mother and thank God she comes to see Gramma where she is spoiled. Toti smooches her every chance she gets and sticks to her like glue, Toti’s tail wags so hard every time the woman speaks I’m sure it’s going to break, Toti lays down right next to her and looks up as if she has been saved. Really both of you?

When you’re 85 years old you can do whatever you want, you can drink Amaretto with breakfast and you can change your mind.  You can welcome your darling little granddaughter with open arms because you know that’s the only way you’ll see her if you’re not willing to travel or go up stairs. There is no better cure for a mundane week than dog breath and waggy tail adoration…I mean nothing better, accept maybe Amaretto with breakfast. Just sayin.