Fred Miller
Some years ago when Old Mange, the best dog I ever had, was in her worthless stinking half-blind senile years, she would sneak out of our house in the middle of the night through the cat door, trot a quarter-mile to the old Miller farmhouse and bark outside to be fed, waking up my elderly parents.
My mother, Ol’ Food, would get up and open the back door with something for the old dog to eat.
We apologized. My mother just shrugged. “She’s old, like us. You just have to put up with some things,” she said.