
Lorie came, so that Pop had someone to watch the Cowboys with. I thought I heard him yesterday, over the phone, begging for her to come. It had been many months since she has been around. I think he has been calling her rather than she calling him. I suppose he really likes her. At least she is able-bodied, and, like him, she likes to drink. One can only hope he is not killing himself with that booze. In truth, of course, I am mainly upset that I don't get the big room to do my thing. The game is over now, but it sounds like they are going to stay in there and drink the day away.
* * *
At least they let me have the big room, as they moved to the kitchen. But Pop is really toasted. Yet, I don't think I've seen him so happy in a very long time. The man likes his booze. But what am I going to do if he burns out? - with a stroke or by dying.
* * *
Well, that worked out well. Lorie was leaving at around eleven. Pop fell down at her car. When she tried to help him up, she fell and broke her glasses. They called on me. She was desperate for me to find her lens, which I managed to do.
She came for a while, but then upon trying to escape Pop's insistent entreaties to go to bed with him, she rushed to leave and tripped and fell over the litter box, and I had a hard time getting her back on her feet. But she eventually leaves.
Pop falls in his bathroom, and I have a hard time helping him back to his feet.
Not bad for old folks, I guess, but still ridiculous. I'm glad to see Pop is himself in the morning. He's a pretty tough guy for a seventy-something. I wish I could still lead my life into my seventies. I'd have over a hundred books filled out.