Buy him breakfast, at least

While my Sainted Southern Mother is in the hospital recovering from her hip-replacement surgery, Mr. Sweetypants and I have been staying with my Good Ol' Boy Daddy at their house. When we aren't at the hospital, Steve and I send updates to family and friends, man the phone lines and run errands.

Last night, Daddy, Steve and I were sitting outside and making our list of errands for today. The first was to drop my daddy's beloved kitten off at the vet to get his first shots and be neutered.

"No problem," I replied while writing on my sticky note. "What did you decide to name him?"

"Haven't decided, have we, little buddy?" Daddy said, encouraging the kitten on his lap to attack its own tail.

"They're going to ask so they can establish his records," I replied. "And I think the polite thing to do, if you're sending a family member off to lose his private parts, is to refer to him by name."

"That's the least you should do," Steve chimed in.

"I'll think about it," Daddy said, promising to leave me a note in the morning with the vet's name and number to call, since my mama was the one who made the appointment and we didn't know the time.

When I got up at 8 this morning, my Daddy had long since left to be at the hospital for opening visiting hours. I drank a cup of the coffee he'd left warming for me and read the sticky note he'd left me.

(Animal Hospital Name)
(Phone Number)
His name is Little Buddy

And my tired, stony, little heart grew three sizes.

Daddy picked Little Buddy up from his de-balling, as Daddy calls it, this afternoon, getting to be the little fella's hero after my bad guy role traumatizing him this morning.

And that's cool. My daddy has always been my hero, too.