The widow, Althea, put her false teeth in a glass of Mosel wine, wondering if the alcohol might burn off the yellow stains. Althea refused to use Polident, preferring to eschew all symbols of old age. Except the wig (horrible hair was her inheritance from her late father’s side), which she stubbornly wore in shades of hot pink champagne. At 86 she no longer cared what people thought, in fact, she enjoyed the whispered comments–it was her way of socializing.
Most times she sat at her first floor bedroom window, in her favorite comfy chair, covered with her white chennelle throw, waiting to see if any animals emerged from the woods that edged her lot. She tossed leftovers up close to the woods, but while the raccoons, squirrels, and birds liked most of it, none of them would eat her lasagna. It sat there, rejected, refused, and rotting. Hopeless.
The momma wolf took pity on Althea, knowing the many ways the old were stuck coping with the crummy outlook of their last days. The momma wolf had recently been shoved aside by a younger female plus that pink wig in the window was rather intriguing. Momma took a dainty bite of old lasagna and gagged. She walked up to Althea’s window and shook her head. Althea toasted the wolf with a glass of white wine, wondering if she invite the wolf in.
Althea opened the window and set out a bowl of wine for the wolf. Momma moved closer and took a sniff. Fruit? She lapped up the whole bowl, giggled, ran in a circle, and burped. Althea put her pink wig on the momma’s head and poured more wine for both.