Joe

I think of Joe, our cat, who, in the years before he died of old age in 2015, would sit in peace behind the house and look off into space as he listened to the birds and the squirrels making their rounds. Finally, after a very short illness, which of course was no illness at all, death took hold of him and shook him from head to tail, and wrung him out like a furry old dish rag; then it stretched him out with paws and claws extended, and left his mouth in a toothy grimace.

Now, contemplate war. If you think there is anything that justifies it, you are more than sadly confused. You are unworthy of Joe.

[ 2099 ]