Just last night a friend told me that the Seattle police shot a native American woodcarver because he was whittling with his knife as he crossed the street in front of a patrol car.

"Put down the knife! Put down the knife!"

It turned out that he was deaf.

I myself once asked a stranger to dial 9-1-1 for me, as, being mentally ill, I realized I was becoming quite severely symptomatic.

Six - count 'em: SIX! - California Highway Patrol cars appeared damn near instantly.

"How can we help you?"

"Could you give me a non-emergency lift to a psychiatric hospital?"

"The dispatcher told us you had a knife?"

"I was using a razor blade to trim the spines from prickly pears." (The fruit of a cactus. Tasty, if you cut the spines off first.)

The head patrolman scolded me for not taking better care of myself, then one of the others gave me a lift at 140 miles per hour to a fast food joint.