Since my grandma died, my eighty-nine-year-old grandad has stubbornly decided to live on his own. He is still quite able and independent, so the family respects this, but I am often on-call to deal with anything he needs help with, including medical appointments.

One Friday evening, I get a call from my mother who lives five hours away.

Mum: “You need to meet [Grandad] at the hospital!”

Me: “Oh, no! What happened?!”

Mum: “He found blood in his stool and he’s going to get checked out. I told him to wait for you but you know what he’s like. Please meet him there and wait with him.”

I head out without delay and meet him there. The doctor is very quick and schedules the tests. I wait with him throughout the night; sadly, the place is very busy, and we have to wait until midnight. He gets called in for the test, and we are told to wait for a phone call on Monday.

We head home, and as my grandad settles in, I do what I usually do when I visit him and check his fridge and cupboards to assess his food supply. My grandma was the cook, and since her passing, my grandad only really cooks ready-meals, which he enjoys, so everyone is fine. I open the fridge and spot something I can’t ignore.

Me: “Grandad, why are there ten packs of chopped beetroot in the fridge?”

Grandad: *Quite proudly* “They were on sale as they’re going off soon! I bought all of them!”

Me: “Have you been eating all of these? For how long? There is a lot here!”

Grandad: “I couldn’t be bothered to cook the other day, so I just had a big bowl of the beetroot while I watched the telly.”

Me: *Bridging my nose* “Grandad, do you think the ‘blood’ you saw in your stool might have been the ridiculous amount of beetroot you’ve been eating for the last few days?”

My grandad sits there for a moment until he realises what I have implied.

Grandad: “Now that I think about it…”

On Monday morning, the hospital calls and confirms my hypothesis when I tell them. Their response?

Hospital: “At least he’s getting his antioxidants!”

I was a very precocious kid but didn’t have as much common sense to back it up. I taught myself how to read at two, and by three, I had learned enough math to be able to work the cash register at my grandpa’s small exotic pet store at the flea market. The entire family was required to help out during the weekend, though my “helping” was them indulging a small child until my attention span ran out and I wandered off.

We sold little feeder goldfish, three for $1, and they had always been bought in sets of three whenever I rang them up before. Someone came to the register with just a single tiny goldfish in a bag, leading to several seconds of confusion. Then, I yelled across the store in a slight panic.

Me: “[Grandpa]! How do you do one-third of a penny?!”

The customer and my grandpa both burst out laughing, and Grandpa called back to charge thirty-five cents.

My first apartment complex had a number of feral cats that would roam the outskirts of the complex since some of the homeowners put out food for them. I was very bored at the time, as I’d just moved to this new area and didn’t know anyone yet, so out of curiosity, I took out some meat one evening to see if a feral cat would come to me to eat.

One little kitten “volunteered” himself by running up to me when he saw me try to feed the other cats, which was already far more outgoing than any of the other ferals.  

He was cautious at first, fleeing from me after taking his meat as the others did. After a number of feedings, I eventually got him to come to me to take the meat out of my hand. Some feedings after that, he would tolerate my right hand briefly touching his head when he grabbed the food out of my left hand. Some feedings after that, he would accept a single stroke of his head to get food. And finally, after a long-fought war, he would willingly allow me to pet him after I finished feeding him.

Eventually, my complex put out cages to catch all the cats, and when my favorite cat was caught, I went to the local shelter and adopted him officially. It took him a few days to get used to being in a house, but he came out of his shell and became a very affectionate cat who loved to be pet. Every night when I got up to go to bed, he would race to my bedroom and take up a spot on the pillows above my head and spend all night curled up with me.

A little while later, I offered to allow some friends to stay at my apartment for the night to save on hotel costs. I warned them that my cat was technically a feral cat, having spent his kittenhood outside with only my intermittent brief visits to feed him for human interaction. Even though he had come to trust me, since I fed him as a kitten, I didn’t know how he would be around other humans. I told them if he was a problem I would lock him in the laundry room for the evening.

When they arrived, their toddler was fascinated by my cat and chased the poor feline all over my small apartment trying to hold him. She was too young to know how to handle cats and so was always trying to pull the poor cat’s tail or pick him up awkwardly. Originally, I was afraid he might lash out at her, but he tolerated her admirably, never once hissing or growling at her no matter what she did.

However, most shocking of all was that, as soon as they managed to get the toddler to go to sleep, my cat went over to her bed and curled up above her head for the night. That was the only night he didn’t sleep with me, having assigned himself to watching over the toddler that had tormented him all evening, instead.

After that, it was clear, despite having grown up outside, that he was always meant to be with people. I’m quite thankful for my random decision to relieve my boredom by seeing whether I could tame a “feral” cat.

This took place before I was born, back in Ye Olde 1980s when people had landlines with multiple receivers around the house. My brother and sister were very young at the time — five and three, I believe — and they were playing around upstairs.

Meanwhile, my parents were downstairs, and they decided to order a pizza. My dad picked up the phone and called the pizza place, but they were busy and placed him on hold. While he was waiting, my brother picked up the phone upstairs and pretended to order a pizza, blissfully unaware that anyone was actually on the line. Then, he hung up the phone and continued playing with my sister.

Once the pizza place finally took my dad off hold to take his order, Dad ordered the exact same pizza my brother had requested. He went to the store to pick it up, came back home, and called out:

Dad: “[Brother], the pizza you ordered is here!”

I’m told that my brother’s expression was quite comical.

I am young when the Berlin Wall is nearing its deconstruction, and my parents try to explain it to me in terms I can understand. Apparently, my vibrant imagination is a strong force in my life, and this conversation happens.

Me: “What’s wrong with the Berlin Wall?”

Mom: “It’s built between two halves of a city.”

Me: “So, why don’t people just climb over it?”

Mom: “It’s got guards who will stop people from doing that.”

Me: *After pondering* “Do the guards stop birds from flying over it?”

Mom: “No, just people.”

Me: “So why don’t people just turn into birds and fly over it?”

Mom: “People can’t really do that.”

Me: *Irritated* “Then grownups need to invent a way. You’re adults, after all!”

Apparently, I was disappointed to hear that the Berlin Wall had been knocked down. I made it abundantly clear that “turning into birds and pooping on the stupid wall as they crossed” made a much better statement.