I decided to take a minute to treat you to a laugh.

In the past I have introduced you to my knucklehead grandkids:  Maddie, 13, John and Jordan (boy/girl twins), 12. My wife thinks they are angels, but I keep one eye open at all times.

The school bus deposits them on my doorstep every day, and they come in for a treat and homework.  There are restrictions on the treats, with ice cream and candy relegated to the weekends.  In typical grandparent fashion, I watch the weekend restriction applied on a sliding scale.  Sometime I step in as an enforcer, and have inherited the nickname, Grump.

A few days ago I resupplied the candy stash.  This cache is treated as if it were a stash of drugs hidden from the police.  There are two candy dishes in the house and an ample supply of goodies in each.  After the initial treat, the bar is closed.  This works most of the time, but I have to be quick on my feet.

The other day, Maddie had gone to swim practice and Jordan was coaching track. John was upstairs doing whatever they do with the iPod.  I was in my computer domain when I heard this “whoosh,” and looking up I saw a shadow.  When I went to investigate there was no one in sight. About 20 minutes later I heard the “whoosh” and caught a glimpse of the shadow again.  I was a little quicker on my feet this time, but still nothing.  It was then that I solved the puzzle.  The Pink Panther is living somewhere in my house.  I can’t find him, but I know he is there.

My next order of business was to check John.  With his innocent look I could give him a tin cup and put him on the corner and he could raise a hundred bucks in 15 minutes.  No clues there.

My wife was reading a book and I gave her an update on the recent mystery, and all she did was smile and go back to her book.  This indicated that the subject was closed.  I went back downstairs and set up shop closer to the candy bowl.  I swear more candy went missing while I was away.

When I was in the process of cleaning the evening dishes, I noticed ice cream bowls and scoops in the sink.  I guess the Pink Panther had a party.

I can’t get mad because this venture conjured up a feeling of déjà vu.

My Dad’s older sister, Rosina, had no kids, so she more or less adopted my generation.  We all called her “Auntie.”  Auntie and her husband, “Doc,” had a residence in D.C. and they also kept an apartment in New York.  Doc had an office in the Grand Central complex.  I would spend a week with them every summer, and sleep on the couch.  Next to the couch was a coffee table, and on this table was a candy dish.  The candy dish was filled with cashew nuts and all through the night I would pull a raid.  The next morning I was in the process of wearing out the carpet between the couch and the toilet.  On one of my trips, Auntie called out saying, “Timmy, after breakfast help yourself to some cashews.”  And, then she smiled.  Déjà vu.