.jpg)
Paw Paw (Reed Roe Ramey) tolerated animals most of the time, and at other times he came close to abusing them because they wanted to climb on him and lick his face and scratch his arms. There was something about him that made animals think he belonged to them. Maybe it was because he was Native American (or Irish, as the case may be). Maybe it was a scent. Whatever it was, I've got it.
I've got two geriatric animals in the house who only know one thing: That I won't put them out in the rain, and that I will feed them two or three times a day. And a white cat sitting on the porch who knows that I will feed him if he hangs around long enough.
There are so many things I should be doing (that's a line from my poem "Cleopatra"). But by the time I feed all the animals multiple times a day, and worry that the squirrels, chipmunks and birds might not be able to find water, the day is practically over. The quilt is still not hemmed or bound. The kitchen cabinets are still not scrubbed. The basement is still a mess. My bedroom is still dangerously cluttered. When you're 156 years old, going on 158, there are only so many things you can worry about in a day.
Maybe that's why Paw Paw spent so much summer time leaning against the mulberry tree and whittling, and so much winter time sitting in a rocking chair in front of the fireplace. He had a lot of animals to worry about, not to mention kids and things. Worrying takes a lot of time.
