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A few months into 2023, I can tell you this: I know when my golden years arrive and my health starts to dwindle, Mrs. Franco is going to take care of me without any questions.
And I know this because of how she treats the pets in our house. That's right. Plural.
Quick update for those of you who have never read me, we have two dogs, two cats, two geckos, two hermit crabs and one rabbit.
We did have three cats, but we recently lost our cat, Rascal, who was 17 years old. And it was tough, but his failing health issues could not be overcome.
But Mrs. Franco took care of him, improving his quality of life in his final years, up until the very end. Rascal was diabetic and had to have two insulin shots a day, seven days a week for at least -- and I am pretty sure more than -- a year.
I have the receipts to prove it.
Can you imagine what insulin for a cat costs? Can you imagine learning how to give a cat a shot twice a day? She learned, and she taught one of our sons, Dominic, how to do it just as a backup. I was useless to teach that task to because I have trouble pricking my own finger as a type 2 diabetic, let alone a cat.
Both of my parents have passed -- my dad in 1994 and my mom in 2018 -- but I would have loved to have told them that we were spending money monthly on insulin for a cat, not to mention the money for syringes, too. I say this because my folks thought Oscar Mayer wieners were too expensive.
Our dog Daisey is on more medications than my Grandpap Franco was at the very end in 1989, and he was 90. But Daisey is getting ready to turn 13 this month, so we'll keep an eye on that.
And because of her meds, she now has to wear a doggie diaper, and in case you think that is a joke, no … I have purchased doggie diapers, and though we finally found some that are not too expensive, the first box I purchased had two washable ones in it and I paid $27.
Take a moment to curse here, and then we'll get back to the column.
But as much as I love to argue about money, I had an Uncle Paul who once told me never go to bed mad over money matters.
So I would just get a good night's sleep and then save the arguments for the morning when we both woke up. He never said anything about fighting in the morning, so I'm going with it.
Thankfully, so far, there are no meds for the rabbit or the geckos, and our other dog, Huckleberry, seems to be healthy, as do our remaining cats, Squirrel and Yona.
I am trying to stay healthy, and I only take three prescriptions, too. Daisey is at four!
Our daughter, Julianna, who was closer to Rascal than any of the kids, took his passing hard. She paid to have him cremated, and his ashes were put in a decorative box with a ceramic piece that goes with it that includes his name and his final paw print. I could tell you the price tag, but since she paid for it, I can't really complain. But what I can do is poke fun at it in a column.
The one thing my wife did that was amusing was when she got the box from the vet … she actually shook it to hear the ashes. My wife just isn't that type of person. I would be the one who would shake the box like maracas in a video for the Miami Sound Machine.
"Is he in there?" I asked. He was.
Which brings me to the point that, when my meds start to double, she will pay for them without asking because she loves me. I constantly look at receipts from the vet. Can't help it.
When I have to start wearing Depends, she will buy me name-brand adult diapers instead of store-brand ones. But to be honest … I would wear store-brand. Store-brand peanut butter is really good, so how can you mess up an adult diaper?
And I want to be cremated. I'm only guessing, but I bet that will be cheaper than a big casket, too.
My whole life I have loved being the center of attention, and finally, at my wake, being a centerpiece on the cookie table will surely achieve that for me.
Mirror Sports Writer Scott Franco writes a monthly column for the Mirror.