My son is making his first navy dive. My dad is robbing his last bank. I'm recalling a pretty good poem by Holly Day-Dream #17 where she slams cats and dogs into walls "careful not to ruin their sweet perfect skin"... still smiling over chicken wire frames... but that's not how it was for me. Steve Atwood, age 20, about 6' 4" would slam a gunny sack full of kittens against the staggered brick wall. Each kitten slung one at a time. If it didn't die upon impact it was stomped into kitty heaven. "Stop" I screamed. Atwood pushed me down again and again. No kittens were saved. Nobody smiled except Steve Atwood. And my seventh birthday was very hollow and lonely. A few months later, Atwood and his gunny sack were back. "Stop it!" I yelled. Then he slammed the first kitten into the wall. I raised my sling shot. A white marble smacked Steve Atwood forehead first and he went down dark as his deeds. I grabbed the gunny sack with the kittens heading for the cellar under our house. Unfortunately, Atwood emerged and told my grandmother what I had done. After Atwood left the front porch, I got more spanking than I had ever had. The remaining kittens got a bowl of milk and new homes as soon as they could be found for each of them.