Waffles

WAFFLES

The registered letter was, well, unexpected. I was not important enough to receive a registered letter. Unless it was bad news. Or I was being sued. I looked at Ken, my letter carrier, and squinted. We were standing on my front porch, him outside, me on the threshold, holding the screen door open with my hip. He held out the electronic signing block.

“What if I don’t sign?” I asked, looking at the blocky mobile delivery device being thrust towards me.

He looked confused. “Why wouldn’t you sign?”

I shrugged. “Maybe it’s bad news.”

He shrugged back. “Maybe it’s good news.”

“What if I’m being sued?”

He smiled. He’d been my letter carrier for years. “Who would sue a nice person like you!”

I smiled back. “Maybe I’m only nice to you, and a nightmare to everyone else?” Which, if I was being honest, had a grain of truth to it.

He chuckled. “Well, to answer your original question. It is not illegal to refuse a registered letter. I just write rejected across the front and return it to the post office. If you don’t pick it up in fifteen days, then it’s returned to sender.” He took a breath. “Buuuuut, refusing the letter does not mean that you didn’t receive it, it just means you didn’t take it. If it’s a legal thing, as of today, you should consider the letter delivered, and if there’s any type of ticking time sensitive information, you’re on the clock now.”

I sighed. I was always going to sign for the letter, I just wanted to postpone it. “Fine,” I said, taking the signature pad and scrawling my name with the highly awkward stylus. I looked at my signature and snorted. “Like anyone can read that.”

I handed the device back, and Ken passed the letter over.

“Have a great day,” he said, as he turned and walked back towards the street, to the next mailbox awaiting his arrival.

I went back inside and locked the front door. The envelope was just that, a normal envelope that would hold no more than a couple of sheets of paper. So, no gems or jewellery, no stocks or bonds—just a letter.

Because I have the self-control of a six-year old, I opened it while still standing in the front hall.

I unfolded the paper, and scanned it. Yesterday’s date. Letterhead from some legal firm. Uh-oh. It was legal.

Please don’t let it be someone suing me. Please don’t let it be someone suing me. Please don’t let it be someone suing me, I chanted looking at the letter.

To: Ms. Harper Lee Fogel

Re: The Last Will and Testament of Mr. William Dean Fogel

Dear Ms. Fogel:

I am sorry to inform you that your great-uncle, William Fogel, passed away August 16, 2026, at the age of 96. Under the terms of the last will, William Fogel has named you in his estate.

There will be a formal reading of the will on Thursday, August 27, 2026 at the above address, 10:00 a.m. Your presence is required. Please contact my office to confirm.

Sincerely,

J. Michael Ballentine

Ballentine, Cash, and Clarke, Family Law

I looked at the letter I was holding in my hand. I don’t remember any William Fogel in the family. Ninety-six? That was Gram and Gramps’ age group. Gramps didn’t have any brothers, just two sisters. Maybe a distant relative? Then why leave something to me? So confusing! I pulled out my phone, and called my grandma.

“Harper! What a surprise!”

“Hey, Gram! How’s it going?”

“I’m on the right side of the lawn, so there’s that! An eighty-nine year streak!”

Ah, Gram! This was our usual repartee. Gram was old, but still all there. She walked every day, did chair yoga twice a week, swam at the community pool, and played competitive bridge—she’s been playing for years, and still whipped my butt on the regular. All-in-all, she was living her best life. When Gramps died seven years ago, Gran sold the house and moved into a seniors’ residence. She was having the best time. I literally had to book an appointment to visit her because she had so many things on her calendar. And she had a boyfriend, Walter, who took up a considerable slice of her time.

“Gram, I got a letter from a lawyer. Apparently someone named—” I looked at the letter. “William Dean Fogel died and left me something in his will.”

Gran was quiet. “Willie died?” she asked, all the joy in her voice gone.

“He did.” I waited for Gran to say something. She didn’t, so I forged ahead. “Who was he, Gran?”

I heard her sigh. “He and your Grandpa were identical twins. The family ousted him because he married a Black woman. His parents forbade us from saying his name. Grandpa kept in touch, but it was hard. By the time his parents died, Willie had become withdrawn, suspicious. He moved to the other side of the country. I haven’t seen him in ten years. Once your Grandpa got sick, it was hard to travel.” There was a pause. “I should have called more often.” She sighed. “Anna was a lovely woman. She died in childbirth—both she and the baby died. It was so sad. He never forgave his family for abandoning him.”

I was mortified. “Gram, I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

“He never remarried. Anna was the love of his life. It changed him. He became introverted, and rarely left his home. Just him and his dogs.” Pause. “I should have taken the time.”

“Gram,” I said, welling up. I’d never heard Gram sound so sad.

She took a big breath. “Well, he lived a long life—ninety-six is a good run.”

“How did he know about me? I’ve never met him.”

“Well, you did, when you were just little. He’d come over to our house, and you’d be there. You used to play hide-and-seek together

. When you found him, you’d laugh and laugh. He was really fond of you. Maybe that’s why he left you something in his will—he remembered the fun the two of you had.”

I thought for a moment. “I’m sorry, Gram, I don’t remember him.”

“I don’t suppose you do. You haven’t seen him since you were, what, four?”

“It’s too bad. If he was like Gramps, then I would have enjoyed his company.”

“I think you would have.” I could hear the smile in Gram’s voice.

“I have an appointment with the lawyer on Thursday at ten. I guess I’ll find out what it’s all about then.”

On Thursday, I put on my best jeans and a clean shirt and headed to the lawyers’ office. I was met by J. Michael Ballentine’s assistant, Lillian, who sat me in his office, with an offer of refreshments, which I refused.

Promptly at ten o’clock, J. Michael Ballentine arrived in his office, carrying a manilla folder with my name on the tab. He introduced himself, “Call me Mike,” and we sat at his small conference table.

Mike smiled at me. “Well, I suspect you were a bit confused about the bequeathment?”

I nodded. “I was. I checked with my grandma Fogel, and she told me that Willie—she called him that—was my grandfather’s twin brother. She also told me that he and I had met when I was quite small. She suggested that maybe that was the reason that he remembered me in his will.”

Mike smiled. “Willie and I talked at length about his estate, and he spoke fondly of you.” He opened the file and looked at it, reading something. Then he looked up at me and smiled again. “His bequeathment is in the other room. I’ll just pop out and get it. Be right back.”

Wow. Something in the office. So, not a car. Or house. Or a boat. Or a pony.

Before I could finish musing about what it couldn’t be, Mike came back in with a dog on a leash.

“This is Waffles. Your great uncle has bequeathed Waffles to you.”

I’m not sure what the look on my face was, but it felt like surprise with a heavy side of confusion. “Waffeles is a dog.”

Mike smiled. “He is.”

“Is he friendly?

As if on cue, Waffles moseyed on over to me. I rubbed his head. He wagged. I gave him butt scritches. He wagged more. I looked up at Mike. “Willie wanted me to have Waffles?”

“He did. You were his only relative, other than Florence Fogel, your grandmother, and your father. Willie believed that asking Mrs. Fogel to take on a dog at this stage of her life was too much of a burden.”

I nodded, continuing to scratch Waffles under his chin. He leaned into my leg—I was sure that if I moved my leg he’d fall on the floor. He was really friendly and calm. A perfect combination.

I looked at him. He was medium big—about the size of a Border Collie—black and brown coat with a small white mark on his chest. He had floppy ears and bright eyes. His fur was short and a bit wavy.

“Any idea what kind of dog he is?”

“Willie said he was the best of all the breeds. He claimed he was the smartest dog he ever owned.”

I nodded. “What happens if I can’t keep him?” I asked, but honestly, I was going to make it work.

Mike’s face looked a bit sad. “Well, Willie’s instructions said that if you couldn’t take him, he was to be surrendered to the animal shelter.”

I looked from Mike to Waffles, and continued to scratch his head—Waffles’ head, not Mike’s.

Mike stood up. “Tell you what, I’ll give you two a couple of minutes alone to get to know each other.” As he walked out of the room. “He’s quite a lovely dog. If I had to surrender him, I would adopt him myself.” He left, closing the door quietly after him.

“Well, Waffles, how ‘bout it? You want to move into a one bedroom apartment? I’ve got a goldfish named Goldie, so you’re going to have to share me with her. I hope you can share.”

We sat there in silence, Waffles looking at me, me looking at him. I swear he was smiling at me. I was hooked. I could tell we were going to be a good pair.

Mike came back in, looking at us, a new smile on his face.

“I’ll take him,” I said smiling. “He’s a lovely boy.” Waffles perked up, as if he knew what I was saying. His tail thumped gently.

Mike smiled even wider, then looked concerned. “Are you sure you’ll be able to keep him in your apartment?”

I nodded. “Mrs. Henley down the hall has a Rottweiler/Chow cross. The thing needs a saddle. Management has not problem with tenants having dogs as long as there’s no incessant barking, and we pick up after them.”

“Have you ever had a dog before?”

“No, but I spent most summers with Gram and Gramps. They always had pets. Dogs, cats, a racoon once. My job was usually to make sure that I picked up after them, fed them, and I always walked the dog. Even during the school year while I was at home, I would go over to their house and go to the vet’s with Gram if Gramps was away at work.” I looked up an smiled. “So, while not technically my pets, I looked after them. When I was older, and they would go on vacation, I would stay at their house with the animals.”

Mike nodded his head. “Willie put aside some money to ensure that Waffles is taken care of properly—food, veterinary care, other expenses.”

That was really thoughtful of him! Not every pet owner thought about the long-term expenses with a pet. “By the way, Mike, how old is Waffles?”

Mike looked down at the paper in his file. “Waffles will be four sometime in February. He was a rescue, so there’s no exact date. The shelter received him when he was a puppy, so his age is a best guess.”

I looked down at Waffles, who was asleep on my foot. “Who would get rid of a sweet boy like him?” I bent over to stroke his back. He literally moaned, and I laughed. I looked at Mike. “Thank you for getting in contact with me. I’m so glad that Waffles is going to be part of my family. I can hardly wait to introduce him to Gram. She’s going to be tickled. She felt terrible that she hadn’t kept in touch with Willie. She was really sad that he passed. Maybe Waffles will make her happy.”

“Willie left a letter and a small bequeathment for your Grandmother.” He looked at his watch. She should be coming in shortly.”

“Is there anything I need to sign before I get out of your hair? You know, saying that Waffles is mine?” I’d never been left anything before so I wasn’t sure of the protocol.

He flipped over some of the pages in the file and had a look at the documents. “Um, Ms. Fogel, I’m not sure that I was clear about the value of the estate.”

I saw Gram in the parking lot as I was leaving. “Did you know?” I asked.

She shook her head. “I had no idea before you told me. The nice lawyer, Mike, called me right after I spoke with you.” She looked at Waffles. “Who is this fine looking gentleman?”

I smiled and scritched his ears. “This is Waffles. He was Willie’s.”

She bent to rub his head. “Well, your great-uncle always liked dogs more than he liked humans. I guess he saw that love of animals in you, as well. So, Waffles is your inheritance?”

“Yes. And more. Other than a bequeathment to you, and one to Mom and Dad, Willie left me his entire estate.”

“Well, he most have done well for himself if he still had assets at ninety-six.” She looked at me. “I hope it’s enough to keep Waffles in kibble. If not, I’ll gladly help you out if you need it.”

“Oh, Gram, I think I’m going to be fine. More than fine. Willie left me everything—his house, car, bank accounts, investments, stocks, royalties. All told —” I took a deep breath. “Twelve million, four hundred fifty-six thousand, two hundred and eight dollars. Waffles and I are going to be more than fine.”