Poor Grandpapa

Grandpapa ain’t so well these days. He used to read me them lovely tales at night, but now he can’t see the words proper. Oft he calls me the wrong name, or looks at me like he don’t know me at all. When he needs to make water, he don’t always get to the chamber pot in time. He hums old tunes from when he were a lad. I laughed at first, but now it makes me feel queer. His voice don’t sound like hisself no more. Mama says it’s naught to fret on - that folk grow strange when they’re old and worn. But last night, Grandpapa bit me. On the arm. I didn’t tell Mama. I don’t want him to be punished. He can’t help it, being poorly and such. Still, I shan’t go near him now. My arm’s gone awful sore and purple, and it weeps something horrid. Poor Grandpapa. Poor me.