I want to be cremated and have ashes strewn over the Mediterranean where I undoubtedly come from. Spain, Italy or Yugoslavia - something of me comes from there. But what about America? New York? Westport?

Those are the only places that were good to me. They are the only ones that wanted me and gave me what I sought. This where my seeds have sprung and my root may take hold. Then bury me in the only country that was mine. I made this my country. Neither my father nor my mother. I chose this country and it accepted me and my children. This is where I want to be.

When he was a kid, he had wanted a dog. Briefly, the twelve year old recovered his mother, she had a whole family -- including a dog, an Irish Setter named Rip. How very American it sounded, how tough and cowboy like, almost Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrip!

He had kids almost before he grew up. They always wanted a dog, when it wasn't a cat, a canary, a turtle or goldfish. He always said no, kids are enough trouble. Trying some humor, he added "a man who hates animals and children can't be all bad".

A few months before his third marriage, his bride-to-be finally won him over and convinced him to buy a dog. A Visula, how very 80's American it was. "OK, but the dog must sleep outside and is not allowed in the house", his last feeble cry -- the little puppy was sleeping next to him in bed every night.

"All these years we wanted a dog and now you get one", his far-past-twenty kids whine. Like most kids growing up in the sixties, his kids were always looking to feel even more deprived than they actually had been. He only makes it worse by referring to the dog as the brother of his alienated son, knowing it drives the kid crazy.

He dies, the kids and the dog carry on.......