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Meanwhile, the Serbs also oblige our less noble urges with "collateral damage" videos of Serbian men, women and children caught up...and often killed...in the aggressive bombardment of Yugoslavia. As some wag once remarked about Werner Von Braun's oft quoted saying..."I aimed for the stars..." by adding "...and often hit London!"...NATO bombing of Yugoslavia with "smart" weapons also often hit short...or long...of intended quarry.

Last week's massacre in Littleton, Colorado reminded us that guns kill quite efficiently no matter who is pulling the trigger. We call it "children killing children'" conveniently ignoring the fact that both assailants were old enough to join the U.S. military...thus allowing "sanctioned" killing of the sort going on in the Balkans as we write. Besides, when armies clash, what is it but "children killing children" as one side's youth slaughter and are slaughtered by opposing forces? And, who is it, after all, who sanctions all this? Older men...and, increasingly, women...seem ever ready to sacrifice their youth to the winds of war.

Ugh!

When Willy was in a maximum security prison...MacNeil Island Federal Penitentiary...in the early seventies, he was, at first, incarcerated in the maximum security portion of the facility. This was a "little joke" played upon him by the authorities, to teach his white, upper-middle class ass a lesson. However, Willy remained defiant and when, after a couple of months, the prison officials offered him a chance to transfer to the "farm"...the minimum security part of the lock-up...he refused, insisting on remaining in the "zoo."

As time went on, Willy became more and more depressed by prison life. In particular, it dawned upon him that he might very well die in that place, tended only by the incompetent and arguably mentally ill doctor assigned to the island. It wasn't that Willy was so old...he was not quite 40 at the time...but that "shit happens" in the joint. Any major trauma was as likely to lead to death as it was to recovery.

He tried many possible remedies for his depressed state. He joined in many activities...racquetball, weight lifting, chess tournaments, etc....and even transferred to the "snitch dorm"...a minimum security sub-facility within the four walls of the main prison compound...against the wise counsel of all his prison friends.

But, nothing worked. Finally, he asked for transfer to the farm, hoping that a more open environment would cure his depression. Once there, he ran into Spence, a man with whom he had entered prison...who also happened to have been Richard Pryor's coke dealer...and unloaded his troubles on Spence's older, wiser and somewhat stronger shoulders. Listening carefully to Willy's whole spiel, Spence ended Willy's depression once and for all with a simple summary question:

"Where exactly is a GOOD place to die?"

That was a long time ago and a long way away from Willy's current situation. He hadn't thought about it for years, long having accepted his own mortality and the vagaries of that which we call "fate." Then, Nancy, our sixteen year old cat (immortalized in the column Beating on tom-toms revisited.) became gravely ill. A visit from our veterinarian confirmed our worst fears. Her internal organs were failing, she had a tumor on her left shoulder and she was beginning to "waste," eating much less than usual, drinking much more than usual and rapidly losing weight.

For a month, we hoped beyond hope that we could somehow reverse her deterioration and restore her aged, but vigorous, life. We fed her whatever she would eat, canned soft cat food supplemented by tuna from human-edible sources, etc. For a while she seemed to be stabilizing, but soon it was apparent that she was gradually getting worse. We had to assist her getting up on elevated surfaces, at first her beloved magic water source (the sink in our bathroom), and later just to get up on our bed. She was spending more an more time in bed with us, sensing perhaps, that she was in trouble and we were the only ones who could help.

Finally, at the beginning of the week, it became apparent that she was nearing death. Tuesday night, as Willy stood doing his old-man-in-the-middle-of-the-night urinating she dragged herself to the bathroom door, but was unable to enter and to rub herself on the back of his ankles in the usual way...to announce her presence and to instruct Willy to lift her into her watering hole. Furthermore, once placed in the sink, she had a great deal of difficulty holding her purchase...continually slipping under the stream of water and getting quite wet in the process.

The next morning, Gypsy made a bed for her in the bathtub and placed a water dish under the slowly trickling faucet. At first she could pull herself to the dish and place her face in the water stream to drink, but by evening, she was too weak to even hold her head up, laying it instead in the dish and drinking from the side of her mouth.

Thursday morning, she appeared to be nearly comatose. Her body had been reduced, under her still copious fur, to skin and bones. The left side of her face was matted with blood, the result of her accidentally biting herself in the left side of her mouth when she ate. Her breath was foul with the stench of failing kidneys. Unable to lift herself at all, Gypsy moved her bed to the middle of our bed and we, Gypsy and Willy, gathered to try to make her final hours as comfortable as possible. After he got off work, we were joined by our son Roger...the only child still remaining living at home with us...and the three of us continued our death-watch. Until this day, Nancy had continued to purr whenever we touched her or gently stroked her fur. But, now, almost...but not quite...oblivious to our presence...she only meowed feebly when we touched her. Finally, at 6:49 p.m. Thursday evening, as Willy tried to feel for her heartbeat, she emitted a relatively loud and startling cry...almost a croak...and died.

Daughter Jennifer (the Younger) joined us just as Nancy expired. The four of us held a short wake...toasting her sixteen years with us as we choked back our tears...not always successfully...and then buried Nancy's limp body outside our bedroom window just before sunset, marking the place with a large stone.

That night and the next day were terrible times for all of us. Gypsy awakened Willy in the middle of the night sobbing uncontrollably as the full impact of Nancy's absence hit her. Nor was she the only one overcome with grief. Roger, Jennifer, Willy...even Miranda in faraway Los Angeles...each had their episodes of heartache and tears.

Note from Willy: As I write down these words, I still have to occasionally wipe the tears from my eyes so that I can continue...

Not only that, but each of us found ourselves wondering at our respective responses. Willy and Gypsy, in particular, noted that Nancy's death had impacted us more severely than the deaths of our own parents! And what about all those people dying so prominently in the media spotlight? Is there something wrong with us?

The answers to these mysteries will have to await more enlightened people than we. But one thing we HAVE discovered. There IS a GOOD place to die. Surrounded by friends and family, Nancy spent all but the last few hours of her life in the firm "knowledge" that she was in the presence of those who had loved her and had been loved in return by her. Each of us will someday die. If only all of us could meet death in THIS way...

Talk to you later...

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