Sometimes there's just no appropriate response...
"So, the other day, I'm sitting on the commode," Mrs. A began and bent over in her wheelchair, resting her elbow on her knee and her chin on her fist. "You know, like you do. And I looked up and he's sitting in the doorway, staring at me. I wanted to get up and slap the back of his head off."
"Well, I'll bet you did," I answered, struggling to delete the image of Mrs. A making good on her threat.
"He belongs to someone. He's always clean and dressed nice. Why don't they keep him at home?"
"I just don't know, Mrs. A."
(Full disclosure: "He" is not, in fact, a male. "He" is a boxy woman with very short hair. She probably looks like a man if your vision is not what it used to be. And, since there are no locks on the doors, some of the wanderers do get into places they shouldn't. Someday, I'd like to work in a facility that has a separate wing for the residents affected by dementia.)