I had to laugh. The animals! Apparently all these studies had been done about how soothing and restful nursing home inmates—uh, residents—found live-in cats, dogs, and birds.

So my grandpa's nursing home adopted all these strays, and told incoming residents,why, of course you can keep your angry, incontinent, biting dog Nibbles! No problemo! Bring all his brothers and sisters, too! Share them with the other residents !

On paper, this is a swell idea. What the genius who did the study didn't take into account was: Grandpa Joe. Maybe he had only nice, soft-spoken old ladies and gentlemen in the study.

Grandpa had grown up on a farm, and had a very pragmatic view of animals:if I can't eventually kill you and eat you, you are taking up valuable air and space . My mom never had a pet—not so much as a goldfish in a bowl—the entire time she was growing up. Neither had I, until I'd moved out after college and picked up Giselle the cat from the pound.

The animals had pretty much taken over the nursing home. They had the run of the place, and took ruthless advantage of it. And they certainly made the staff feel better.Ohhh, how cute, that cat is helping that man with all the terminal illnesses !

So now, my grandfather, who should be enjoying his autumn years, has to boot a snoozing golden retriever out of his bed if he wants to snag a nap after lunch.

"Well, he just couldn't take it anymore," Mom was saying. "So he unhooked all the equipment he was on—"

"Um, hello, didn't any alarms go off in the nursing station?"

"Well, hon, you know how understaffed they are. And Grandpa lulled them into a false sense of security by pulling his leads out a bunch of other times."

"Like the boy who cried wolf," I suggested. The angry cancer-raddled animal-hater who cried wolf, repeatedly, to fool his captors. I mean the nurses. "Except a whole bunch of times."

"Right. So nobody thought much of it when the alarms went off—they figured Joe was up to his old tricks again. So he got into his chair—"

"He can transfer by himself now?" I knew all the lingo from a brief, but memorable, stint as a volunteer at that very home.

"Yes. So he got into his wheelchair and—you know. Escaped." "Just wheeled himself out past the border guard, huh?"

"Exactly. You know—oh, look, that sweet old man is coming out to see the world."

"Morons," I decided.

"Yes, but they couldn't know. They aren't family. Anyway, out he goes—"

"Outside?"

"I know, I know." "It's twenty fucking degrees outside!"

"Well, more like ten there." There being Brainerd, Minnesota. "But sadly, your grandfather did not foresee his old enemy, fatigue, when he made his daring dash for freedom."

"Where did he think he was going to go in a hospital johnny?" I wondered.

Dumb question. For Grandpa, being half-naked was irrelevant. Being master of your own destiny was all! "How far did he get?"

"About three blocks outside the home and then fell asleep. A family on the way to visit a relative ratted him out."

"Vile informers!" I cried.

"So the nurses came to get him, and wheeled him back, and tucked him back into bed—he was so exhausted he didn't even wake up—and imagine how completely irritated he was when he woke up with a cat on his pillow!"