Henry hobbled around the kitchen this morning and instead of
looking like a toddler, he reminded me of an old war veteran with stiff knees.
That’s when I realized he had a small piece of raison bread stuck to the bottom
of his foot.
“Henry,” I said.
“Is there bread on your foot?”
“Bread, foot,” he said.
“Let’s put the bread in the trash,” I told him.
Ignoring my suggestion, he stared at me. Then he
peeled the piece of bread from the bottom of his barefoot and shoved the
food into his mouth.
“Or you can put it in your mouth,” I replied.
That’s when he took the disgusting glob of bread out of his
mouth, placed it on the ground, and for the second time of the morning, stepped
on it.
“Ah,” I said. “So that’s how you got it to stick.”
He smiled and went back to his hobbling.
