At first, I just thought it was cute. My grandpa, Roman, sitting cross-legged on the floor, sharing bites of scrambled eggs with our dog Rizzo like they were two old buddies catching up over brunch.
He’s never been much of a dog person. Grew up on a farm, where animals had their place—outside. So when he moved in with us after his stroke, I didn’t expect him to bond with our 90-pound fluff monster.
But within a couple weeks, they were inseparable. Rizzo followed him everywhere. If Grandpa dropped his cane, Rizzo would nudge it back to him. If Grandpa sat too long, Rizzo would bark until someone helped him stand.
Still, the breakfast thing started getting out of hand. Grandpa wouldn’t eat unless Rizzo was fed first. He even started saving meat from dinner to sneak into his nightstand drawer for “later.”
I didn’t say much, just let them do their thing. But then one morning, I overheard Grandpa whisper something to Rizzo.
I was halfway down the hallway when I froze.
He said, “Such a lovely tradition, don’t you think? Always making eggs on Sundays.”
I stood there holding a mug I didn’t remember filling.
Grandma passed two years ago. She used to make him eggs every single Sunday morning.
I thought maybe it was just a sweet memory. Just a moment. But then he kept talking.
