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  • I don't know how it began. How do things begin really? Not with lightning bolts, cymbal clashes or fanfare. Not with premeditation. It's all some cockeyed recipe of whim and happenstance.

    I found two cats when I was in college and named them Huntley and Brinkley after the two evening newscasters I can first recall listening to on the boxy black & white TV in our family room. Then came the white-faced cat with the stubby tail--Howard K. Smith. After that it was Max Robinson.

    And now Walter Cronkite, whose namesake was once considered the most powerful journalist in the world, the most trusted man in America. The original Walter Cronkite is up in journalism heaven, freed from his notebooks and deadlines and the weight of the truth telling he was saddled with here on Earth. I hope he understands that I mean no disrespect. I'm pretty sure he does. I like to think that he knows I praise him each time I open my back door and summon this little beast inside for her evening meal of fish-flavored cereal pellets.
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