The cast iron skillet slammed onto the stovetop and she closed the oven door, pulling the stained oven mitts off her hands.

“There’s just so much that comes in to me. I can’t imagine where it will go. Like those dogs. Dalmations? You know, those skinny racing dogs.”

“You mean Greyhounds, Gran?” I asked.

“Yes, Greyhounds! There’s that skinny part of their stomach that curves up into nothing. You’d be hard pressed to get a thimble full of anything through there.”

She reached up to get two dinner plates. “Can’t imagine anything getting from the thinking end to the business end. But they run.”

She handed the plates to me as I set the table.

“They run and they run.”