Don't feed the wildlife

When we were kids, while my mother was at Sunday Mass - her one respite of a week - my father would sometimes take us to feed the deer at Green Hill Park, or the ducks at Elm Park. At Green Hill Park, we'd take our large brown paper bag full of stale bread and head over to the cylcone fence the deer were behind Those critters would lope over and press their muzzles up against the chain links and we'd shove pieces of bread into their mouths, careful not to graze their big old teeth with our little young fingers. 

At Elm Park, there was no separation between kids and wildlife, but I don't remember ever feeding the ducks by hand. I think we just scattered stale bread around.

There were no signs warning us off feeding the animals. I'm sure at Green Hill Park, families feeding the deer was factored into their diet. Sure, they were wild animals, but they were in captivity, in a sort of pastoral mini-zoo (now replaced by a petting zoo) that also featured bison. The ducks at Elm Park weren't captive, but were left to their own devices, one of which was letting families toss bread at them.

In general, it's not a good idea to feed wild animals, as they grow accustomed to humans and human food when they should be consorting with each other and with their animal kingdom enemies, and eating whatever comes naturally: acorns, weeds, bugs, mice. The other day, someone posted a picture taken at the Boston Public Garden of a giant hawk, perched in a tree, with a giant rat in its talons. (Go, hawks!)

But despite the many signs telling folks not to feed the animals, I always see people (mostly tourists) feeding the geese, the ducks, and the squirrels. 

My favorite feeders were a pair of middle-aged women - locals, not tourists - who'd I see roaming around the Garden pulling a luggage carrier with a giant carton full of peanuts strapped to it. 

To me, all squirrels look alike, but these two clearly recognized the differences. "Mr. Bun-Bun!" they would call. "Benicio! Alice!" And any squirrel within earshot would beeline over to them for some peanuts. 

The downside of all this was that the squirrels became pretty darned agressive, and began coming right up to people expecting - nay, demanding - a handout. A friend of mine had a squirrel run up her leg. And the little bastards got big - some seemed to me the near-size of racoons. 

And, yes, there are racoons around here, but they mostly come out at night or in the early morning hours to maraud through garbage cans. (Let me tell you, those suckers can lick an avocado pit clean.) But nobody sets out to feed racoons. 

But way across the country, someone did. 

For more than 35 years, a woman in Washington State would leave some food in her yard for about a dozen resident raccoons. (Source: NY Times)

Then, all of the sudden, the news went viral in racoon-ville that there was chow to be had, and all of a sudden there was a horde of around 100 racoons nosing around the woman's house. 

All night, she had racooons scratching around while she sheltered in place. When she tried venturing out during the day, she was swarmed by racoons, and they'd back off only when she starting throwing them food. Unlike her regular racoons, which were nice, the new guys were aggressive, nasty, demanding, scary. And it kept getting worse. 

So she did what anyone would do, which was dial 911. With the sheriffs watching over her, she hopped in her car and fled the scene. 

The sheriff’s department said trappers had been asking a prohibitive $500 per raccoon to cart them away. So the woman was referred to the state’s department of fish and wildlife. Their expert advice was, well, to stop feeding the raccoons.

“The raccoons appear to have started dispersing now that they are no longer being fed, and we are glad for a positive outcome to this case,” Bridget Mire of the Washington Department of Fish and Wildlife wrote in an email on Thursday.

...“We discourage people from feeding wildlife, as this causes them to lose their natural fear of people, which can lead to aggression,” Ms. Mire said. “It also draws animals together, possibly mixing healthy and sick animals and spreading diseases among them. Some wildlife, like raccoons, can carry diseases that may be transmissible to people and pets. Feeding wildlife also may attract predators, such as coyotes and bears.”

I haven't seen the Public Garden squirrel feeders in a few years.  Maybe they got the message that you're not supposed to feed the wildlife, even if they are "just" cute little squirrels like Mr. Bun-Bun and Benicio.

Thoughts on this day of days

November 5, 2024.

If I got any sleep last night - and as of this writing, there's no reason to believe I would have - I can guarantee that I woke up with a not-so-great feeling in the pit of my stomach.

November 5, 2024.

Will this be yet another day that will live in infamy?

Will this be - with the exceptions of the days on which people I loved died - the worst day of my life?

Maybe yes, maybe no.

My brother Rick, an experienced and astute observer of things political, told me a couple of weeks ago that he had a bad feeling about this one.

My friend Joe, an experienced and astute observer of things political, told me a couple of weeks ago that he thought Harris would win in a landslide.

Two men who have been directly involved in campaigns over the years. Two different gut feels.

Depending on the day, depending on the time of day, I'm a total downer, Rick-inspired (despired?) pessimist, or a grinning, buoyant Joe-inspired optimist. All I know is, over the past six months, I've gained about 10 pounds nerve eating. Why open the vino or mow down edibles when you can munch on Lindt dark chocolate with orange and almonds?

Even in Boston - which in 2020, broke about 85:15 in favor of Biden - I look at folks walking by with suspicion. Is that a MAGA?

If I lived in a red state, I'd likely have stroked out by now.

Whatever happens today (or over the next few days), if the outcome is not Joe's forecast landslide, I'll be wondering why.

But today's blog is not mostly, not directly about the election. It's about the disinformation/misinformation world we live in, where some folks seem to believe anything - however preposterous - they "hear" from certain sources, and act accordingly.

And so, it was a few weeks back, in the aftermath of Helene - or was it Milton? - that we heard that FEMA had to temporarily pull out of some communities in North Carolina because of threats of violence directed at FEMA workers.

And then there was this: a stunning headline in Rolling Stone that read "Meteorologists Get Death Threats as Hurricane Milton Conspiracy Theories Thrive."

Meteorolgist? That friendly guy on the evening news who tells you whether you need to bring an umbrella with you the next day? Or is it sunscreen? That guy?

"It's their job to warn residents about destructive storms—but political polarization has made them targets online."

"'People are just so far gone, it’s honestly making me lose all faith in humanity,' says Washington, DCM-based meteorologist Matthew Cappucci, in a phone interview conducted while he was traveling down to Florida for the storm. 'There’s so much bad information floating around out there that the good information has become obscured.' "Cappucci says that he’s noticed an enormous change on social media in the last 3 months: 'Seemingly overnight, ideas that once would have been ridiculed as very fringe, outlandish viewpoints are suddenly becoming mainstream & it’s making my job much more difficult."

The prime-crazy conspiracy theory: the hurricanes were created (using space lasers) or modified (and sent the way of red areas) by meterologists at the direction of Deep Staters - that would mostly be those enemies-of-the-people, the Democrats - to screw over red states. 

"'I put on armor every day to try to go online & make sure people aren’t saying things that could harm responses,' says [Meteorolist Katie] Nickolau. She’s had to fend off rumors that meteorologists should just use giant fans to blow the hurricane away or try nuking it. "'Stopping misinformation is becoming an exhausting part of the job which is taking away from spentime forecasting or sending out other info that could be helpful,' says Nickolau. She says her heart sinks when she sees a false post get millions of views 'cause it’s virtually impossible to go back & fact-check it for everyone that’s seen it. "After that call, Nickolau received an even more troubling message on her page: 'Stop the breathing of those that made them & their affiliates.' "'Murdering meteorologists won’t stop hurricanes,' she tweeted. 'I can’t believe I just had to type that.'"

Talk about shoot the messenger. Sheesh. 

Meteorologists, of course, aren't always right. How often have we packed the sunscreen when we should have packed the umbrella? How often have we made a last minute raid on the grocery store to stock up on milk and bread, knowing we really needed to be prepared for a major Nor'easter that's going to dump two feet of snow, but ends up fizzling into a yawn of a two-incher.

But do I blame Eric Fisher of WBZ-TV? No, no, a thousand time no!

Disinformation (deliberate lying). Misinformation (passing on someone else's deliberate lies out of ignorance). Willful and unwillful ignorance. Innate or acquired stupidity. Cynicism that says that nothing matters, the reality and government are boring, that everything is one big wrestling match, so why not root for the villain who entertains you and at least kinda/sorta says what you're thinkging. 

When I was a teenager, I started doing extensive reading on the Holocaust - first person accounts, historian analysis, fictional imaginings - and my fear since those long ago days has been that the biggest threat to democracy is not from the left, but from the right. From fascism. And while, even with a terrible outcome today, I don't foresee gas chambers, the wholesale wipe out of a people, I can definitely foresee people - hapless immigrants, political opponents - getting rounded up. Women being tracked to make sure they don't cross their state border to buy the morning after pill. The US abandoning historic alliances while cosying up to the Orbans and Erdogans. Journalists silenced. More books banned - and even burned. Armed to the teeth militias stoking fear and violence. Peaceful protestors met with an armed military. Gay marriage rescinded. Christian fatwas. Anyone not deemed sufficiently patriotic enough being hounded out of position, job, community. Using the military against "the enemy within" - which would be folks like Congressman - soon to be Senator - Adam Schiff, and anyone else who had the temerity to oppose him. ("Enemies" I've heard named by Trump's brigade of henchmen - men like Steve Bannon, Mike Flynn, Kash Patel, Stephen Miller - include Joe Biden, Hillary Clinton, Barack Obama, Mark Milley, and Anthony Fauci. Execution of such traitors has been bandied about.)

There's a reason I woke up today worried.

If I were the praying type, I'd be praying that Harris wins in a landslide, and that TFG concedes (gracefully would be a nice touch, but not one expected) and doesn't go all out urging the most die-hard and ignorant of his supporters to tear the country apart.

__________________________________________

And, no, I don't believe that everyone voting for Trump is an intellectually and morally challenged, fascism-welcoming person. But they sure do have a different world view than I do.  

I wouldn't bank on the outer banks

I'm a regular/irregular watcher of House Hunters, the HGTV show that follows a potential homebuyer on their house-buying journey. Supposedly. While the show purports to follow the homebuyer looking at three properties and picking one to have and to hold, what the show actually does is work off the house that someone has already made an offer on, and then backfill the plot with two other places - which may or may not have been houses that the purchaser actually considered. Fakery aside, the show is pretty interesting, as you get to see three properties and get a sense of what types of property are available where. (As in Atlanta suburbs: big and boring. As

in the city of Chicago: quirky and interesting.)

Recently, there was an episode in which a woman on the verge of retirement wanted to move from the DC suburbs to the Outer Banks of North Carolina, where she had vacationed over the years.

I've never been to the Outer Banks, but those islands are supposed to be gorgeous. 

There's just one problem: the Outer Banks are barrier islands that are made up entirely of sand. And they're eroding. And the houses that were built upon the sand are falling into the drink. 

Earlier this fall, over the course of just a few days, three houses went slip sliding away. 

On Hatteras Island:

..."every year, 10 to 15 feet of that white sandy beach is gone,” [superintendent of the Cape Hatteras National Seashore David] Hallac said. “And then the dunes and then the back-dune area. And then all of a sudden, the foreshore, that area between low water and high water, is right up next to somebody’s backyard. And then the erosion continues.”

Ocean waves eventually lap at the wooden pilings that hold up the beach houses. The supports could be 15 feet deep. But the surf slowly takes away the sand that is packed around them.

“It’s like a toothpick in wet sand or even a beach umbrella,” Hallac said. “The deeper you put it, the more likely it is to stand up straight and resist leaning over. But if you only put it down a few inches, it doesn’t take much wind for that umbrella to start leaning. And it starts to tip over.” (Source: WMTW)

The problem is not North Carolina's alone. Massachusetts' Nantucket is also built on the shaky foundation of sand. And every year, we get to see a story or two about an oceanfront house that used to be located about 100 feet from the water being swept out to sea. (Martha's Vineyward is luckier: a combo of rock and sand. Luckier still, the Maine islands that are built on rock.)

The Outer Banks islands are notable because their erosion is moving faster than fast. The Outer Banks are pretty much at sea level; Nantucket isn't exactly mile high, but its average elevation is around 30 feet. When it comes to warding off erosion, bigger's a bit better. When there's a hurricane heading their way, the Outer Banks islands are evacuated, and the miles-long traffic jams full of escapees trying to get across the bridge always make the national news. Nantucketers weather a storm on island. 

Anyway, what surprised me on that recent House Hunters I watched was that the Outer Banks disappearing act never came into consideration. Instead, most of the attention being paid was being paid to how close to the water she could get. 

In truth, the NC barrier islands are skinny, and if you're willing to walk a few miles, most of the houses are walking distance to the water. But the lure of actual waterfront is so great...

It's just that, do people not get what is happening?

“Perhaps it was more well understood in the past that the barrier island was dynamic, that it was moving,” Hallac said. “And if you built something on the beachfront it may not be there forever or it may need to be moved.”

Ah, the past, when some things were "more well understood."  

The House Hunters house hunter decided that having a bit more square footage was more important than living la vida beachfront. But I don't imagine she's going to have a very relaxing retirement. The Outer Banks could end up being the Under Banks, that retirement dream home part of a latter day Atlantis. 

Sigh...

Happy Halloween, 2024!

Last Halloween, I was in Ireland, celebrating my niece's Master's Degree and, since it was Ireland, and they pretty much invented it, Halloween. Which I wrote about in Have yourself a merry little Samhain.

In 2022, I strolled around my neighborhood, which puts on a pretty good Halloween for itself, and took a bunch of pics of local decor. 

Beacon Hill usually goes all out, but when I did my initial walk-around/look-see a few weeks ago, there wasn't all that much to look-see. This was the absolute drabbiest drab display, but most of the ones I saw weren't up to par. (Other than the witches' legs, which are back at the Whitney Hotel.) Guess I was way early to check things out. I'll be out later today, and I'm hoping there'll be plenty of good displays to see.

My 2019 post was devoted to Halloween candy - and to St. Francis House - the day shelter where I will be spending the day. And, as has become my custom over the years, I'll have plenty of candy for the guests who come through the Resource Center - folks for whom life has provided a lot more tricks than treats.

Thinking about Halloween candy reminds me that I haven't yet had any candy corn or "harvest cream" pumpkins this year. On my walkabout, I'll have to swing by a CVS and remedy that. Can't have Halloween without the sweet goodness of candy corn.

In 2014, I posted about my first Halloween post-death of my husband. Halloween was Jim's favorite holiday - the only one he enjoyed celebrating. So I had a Snickers and some Good 'n Plenty in his honor.

My first Halloween post, way back in 2007, was on The Halloween Biz. And the biz has only gotten bigger since then.

Anyway, I've always enjoyed Halloween, and I suspect that - even though my stomach's in knots over the election on Tuesday - this year will be no different. 

In case you're wondering, I'm going out as myself. 

Happy Halloween!

Joro spiders? There goes the neighborhood.

Wildlife. In Boston.

There have always been rats, of course. And there are also mice. And racoons. And pigeons. And other birds, like starlings, robins, bluejays, and even hawks. And ducklings. Nuisance-wise, we have Canada geese and wild turkeys. Someitmes there are coyotes. Insect-wise, if you're unlucky, there are cockroaches. And if you're really unlucky, bedbugs. And there are ants, yellow jackets, mosquitoes. And silverfish, and daddy-longlegs, and itsy bitsy spiders. 

And now we have Joro spiders to worry about? 

We're not talking about "somewhere in New England, " here. Or "somewhere in Massachusetts." Or even "somewhere in Greater Boston." We're talking about Beacon Hill. On Mount Vernon. Right around the corner from where I live. 

Sure, tell me all you want that they're harmless, but Joro spiders a two-minute walk away? That's way, way, way too close for comfort.

Photographer Joe Schifferdecker was the first to spot and document this invader:

“It’s pretty cool that it’s in the middle of Boston,” he said. “It hasn’t been sighted at all in Massachusetts.” (Source: Boston Globe)

I beg to differ: no bright-yellow spider with a 1.5 inch body and a wing span of up to 5" is "pretty cool," unless it's behind glass in an insectarium. If it's in my home, or staring through a window (like the creepy luna moth staring at us through the screened window of a NH AirBNB a couple of years ago), or one my front steps, it's scary and creepy. 

This is the furthest north a Joro has been sighted. Last year, they only made it as far as Baltimore. This year, they were last seen outside of Philadelphia. (In case you're wondering, Joros are an invasive species, native to Asia, and first arrived about 10 years ago, most likely via shipping containers. Hope we're enjoying all those iPhones and Trump Bibles!)

Sure, they're interesting looking. And I guess I'll take the scientists' word that they're not harmful. 

David Nelsen is a biology professor from Tennessee, and his words are somewhat assuring.

“They’re not dangerous because the[ir] venom is really, really insect-specific, and we’re not insects.”

And a bite is no big deal, at least according to David Coyle, a Clemson professor of "forest health and invasive speciies."

...for a person, a bite from a Joro spider would be similar to a mosquito bite, causing some itchiness, redness, and swelling, he said. “Whereas something like a black widow or brown recluse, you get bit by one of those, you need to see a physician because that is a very different venom.”

But, but, but, if I encountered a Joro I'd still be freaked.

It's not exactly the size of a silverfish or a drain fly, or an itsy bitsy little brown house spider you can just crush with a piece of Kleenex and flush down the toilet. What are you supposed to do if you have a close encounter in your home? Yuck!

Joro spiders just around the corner? There goes the neighborhood.

As the baseball season winds down...

I never owned a baseball glove, but as a kid I did play baseball on occasion. I grew up in a kid-filled neighborhood, but most of the families on our street were boy-majority. With a 3-2 ratio, we were girl majority, and there were a couple of tied up families, but in the majority of houses, boys outnumbered girlss: 2-1, 7-0, 3-2, 4-1, 6-1. So if I wanted to play when my girlfriends weren't around for jumprope or jacks, it was "boy games." Thus, I played plenty of war, and plenty of baseball.

I never owned my own glove. I used my brother Tom's or that of one of the other boys. 

But I remember the thrill of a new glove, the TLC. 

I remember Tom, my even younger brother Rick, and the neighborhood boys, doing all sorts of things to break in their new Rawlings, or keep their old Wilson supple.

Wrap glove around a baseball and secure the glove around the ball with rubber bands, creating a better pocket. Sit on the couch watching a game, hand in glove, repeatedly whacking the pocket with your fist, perhaps in hopes or dreams that a ball would somehow sail through the TV screen and you'd make a brilliant catch. Oil glove with 3 in One Household oil to keep it from drying out. Because we'd all been in our grandmothers' back hall closets and seen those shirveled up gloves our fathers had played with. 

Ah, baseball. There's nothing like it, and all these many years after I first, as a two-year-old, uncomprehendingly "watched" a game on our b&w Philco, toddling over to the screen at my father's direction to pick a runner off base, I have loved watching this game (and, back in the day, even playing it a little).

So I was delighted to see a mention on Twitter a while back that led me to an article on Jimmy Lonetti, a retired Minneapolis mailman who makes a living repairing baseball gloves 

Lonetti never expected his retirement hobby to grow into a brick-and-mortar business in the Longfellow neighborhood. He took care of his son’s Little League glove so he didn’t have to keep buying new ones, and teammates began asking for tune-ups on their own gloves, which continued as his son traded the Little League field for the diamond at his high school and later at St. Mary’s University.

His circle of clients grew along with his son, eventually leading to the birth of D&J Glove Repair in 2010 with the help of a friend in advertising and an eighth-grader who set up the website. (Source: Twin Cities Business)

And now Lonetti is running what may be the only baseball glove repair shop in existence - where, among other things, he hosts Twins watch parties - where folks (and his repair jobs come from around the country) bring their gloves because they'll find a level of expertise they won't find in, say, a shoe repair shop that sidelines in glove repair.

Posted in Lonetti's shop is a vintage ad/sign, dating from the 1950's, when I first fell in love with the game. 

“A baseball glove is a beginning and an ending, a boy’s first sure step toward manhood, a man’s final lingering hold on youth. It is a promise, a memory,” the sign reads. “A baseball glove is a dusty badge of belonging, the tanned and oiled mortar of team and camaraderie. In its creases and scuffs slots sunburned afternoons speckled with thrills … 1,001 names and moments strung like white and crimson banners in the vast stadium of memory.”

Corny? Yep!  But cornball, history, nostalgia have long been part of this venerable game.

And there's Jimmy Lonetti, with a last name worthy of the Golden Age of Baseball, when team rosters were peppered with Italian names like "Poosh 'em up" Tony Lazzeri, Joe and Dom DiMaggio, Scooter Rizzuto, Yogi Berra, Joe Garagiola,  Rocky Colavito, Tito Francona...

As the baseball season winds down, here's wishing Jimmy Lonetti and his shop an successuful Hot Stove League season, with all sorts of gloves in terms of a bit of professional TLC pouring into his shop. 

Sarco? I think not.

The older I get, the more my thoughts turn to mortality in general, and my personal mortality in particular.

I'll "only" closing in on 75, so I certainly hope that the end game is not nigh. Still, sooner or later it happens to the best of us. 

Like everyone else in the world who thinks about their own death, I hope that when the time comes, I check out quickly and painlessly. My father died at 58 after a seven year battle with kidney disease. His death was neither quick nor painless. My mother, age 81, had two miserable weeks in the ICU before she died of heart disease, but I'd take those two miserable weeks of wind-down vs. the long goodbye slog. But as long as I'm healthy and with it - as my mother was: when she died, she was still volunteering, still taking courses, and had three trips planned -  I'd sure like more than 81 years, even though when my mother died it seemed pretty old to me.

My Aunt Mary (my mother's sister) made it well into her 90's, and up until her early 90's she was independent and vigorous. If you saw or spoke with her, you'd think you were with someone a decade - maybe even two decades - younger. And then she wasn't so independent and vigorous, but still doing more or less okay. And then, sadly, for the last long months of her long life Mary was bedridden, crying, praying to die. This from a woman who was so strong, tough as nails, not one scintilla of self-pity running through her veins. Sigh. 

My Aunt Margaret (my father's sister) didn't make it to Aunt Mary's great old age. She died at 85, but it was quick and, as far as we know, painless. And Peg died with her boots on. The evening before her death, she'd hosted members of her family for dinner, including a new great-grandchild. On the day of her death, she went to Mass, went to the Star Market, went to the library. And came home, took a nap, and died on the same daybed my grandmother had died on seventeen years before, under the same yellow-and-brown afghan (crocheted by my mother) that Nanny had died under. 

We all want a Peg death, that's for sure. Maybe a Mary death, with the trade off of suffering through a final bad spell in exchange for a decade more of good enough years. Maybe even a Nanny death, although she had tremendous mobility issues for years and her final years were pretty constrained. (Of course, I don't have a daughter to take me in and take care of me for the final half-decade of my life.)

My husband died too young - at 70 - and his last couple of years were on the cancer rollercoaster, with periods of misery interspersed with periods of mostly okay. Not a great way to go. But Jim approached his death with equanimity and good humor, and, in the end, refused a last chance to prolong his life for a few months (a few months of mostly chemo suffering). While I hope for a Peg death, if I get a Jim death, I hope I go out with the same equanimity, good humor, and practical wisdom.

During Jim's final months, we did vaguely explore a move to Vermont, a right-to-die state. More than once, Jim told me that even if he wanted out, he would never ask me to give him morphine - which we had (but never used) throughout his time in home hostice - because he wouldn't want me to get in any trouble. So, we looked a bit at Vermont, where Jim was born and grew up, but nothing came of it. 

I'm a believer in right-to-die, and have voted in favor of it when it's been a ballot initiative. Not that I'm a 100% believer. What I do believe is that there need to be slippery slope safeguards in place so that it doesn't turn in to a convenient way to get rid of folks who are no longer quite as convenient as once they were.

But if I'm actively dying and miserable, in hospice, nearing the end, please hold off on the intubation, the invasive problem fixing, the forced feeding. Just up the morphine dose, keep me out of pain, and let me drift off into the oblivion of The Big Sleep.

Would I be more pro-active in terms of a planned exit, as in our non-transfer to the great state of Vermont for Jim? I doubt it. I've always been more of a let's just see what happens kind of guy.

My end-of-life meditations pretty much presume I'm compos mentis. So far, I avoid going down the path of thinking about what to do if I get Alzheimer's - other than the stray is this it? thoughts that intrude when I can't remember the word for poncho, or when I leave my keys on the kitchen counter rather than on the credenza.  

Anyway, there's apparently another end-of-life option on the horizon, the Sarco death capsule, which was recently tried out in Switzerland.  

The “Sarco” capsule, which has never been used before, is designed to allow the person sitting in a reclining seat inside to push a button that injects nitrogen gas into the sealed chamber. The person is then supposed to fall asleep and die by suffocation in a few minutes. (Source: The Boston Globe)

Several people were detained by the police on "suspicion of incitement and accessory to suicide" after a 64 year-old American woman checked into the Sarco, a 3D-printed device developed by Exit International, a Dutch assisted suicide group. 

Switzerland is a logical place to beta-test the Sarco.

Swiss law allows assisted suicide so long as the person takes his or her life with no “external assistance” and those who help the person die do not do so for “any self-serving motive,” according to a government website.

Unlike some other countries, including the Netherlands, Switzerland does not allow euthanasia, which involves health care practitioners killing patients with a lethal injection at their request and in specific circumstances.

Switzerland is among the only countries in the world where foreigners can travel to legally end their lives, and is home to a number of organizations that are dedicated to helping people kill themselves.

Despite Switzerland's generally positive attitude towards right-to-die, and the country's becoming a destination for suicide tourism, there are some who take issue with the Sarco, questioning its legality in terms of product safety and use of nitrogen. 

The product safety concern is interesting. Is the Sarco safe if it safely kills someone? Unsafe if the person takes too long to die?

I don't know about you, but the Sarco is not how I want to "slip the surly bonds of earth." I want to die in a comfy bed or relaxer chair, not in a 3-D printed device that looks like it belongs in a modernized, souped up version of an amusement park Bump'em Car ride. Or on the bobsled course in the Olympics.

Still, it's something worth thinking about. 

What's the right way to go????