Unfortunately, great aunt Frieda left a casserole at home, so I got volunteered to drive her down the block to get it. Craig came, too, as he was trying to avoid his cousins.
We walked into this small musty-smelling condo and were standing there while she rummaged in her fridge. Craig, trying to make conversation, asked “do you have any pets?”
Great aunt Frieda: “Yes, I have a cat, Marty.”
Craig: “Where is he?”
Great aunt Frieda: “Over there.”
And she pointed to a shelf above the stove. With a ceramic urn that said “Marty."