Hi folks -- I just thought of this this morning and in mentioning it to my wife, she suggested I write this up as an "auto" biographical piece. This is all brought on by present experience. We have an outdoor cat by the name of "Blackie." She is such a loving cat, and when I get up in the morning and go to the end of the drive way to get the newspaper, Blackie follows -- prancing and loving me along the way. The problem is she can go into the street, which that time of day has little traffic, but still cars do pass by. I worry about her if she gets into the street, and a few days ago a Mustang drove up, however cautiously as I held out my hand to slow down. I would be devastated if she were hit while fetching the paper, and it brings back to memory perhaps the most horrific episode in my childhood.
I was maybe eight years old and in the second grade, living in North Tonawanda, New York. Every day I would come home for lunch, and one day my best friend and dog, "Sparkie," followed me as I walked back to school. Sparkie, like Blackie, was full of energy, and rarely listened. So much so that she wandered on a main street where she was hit by a pale green 1952 Chevy that did not stop. Sparkie was mortally wounded, and after a short time a policeman came by and shot her in front of me to put Sparkie out of her misery. To this day I remember the speeding Chevy and exactly how Sparkie was hit by that car. If I ever catch that driver, I'll kill him or her.
This is exactly the color of the car as I remember it. It was unwashed and looked not cared for, probably in 1957 or 1958.
