On the eastern border of Siberia they say nothing grows. Not even a cactus says Tootie. Oh will somebody shut that kid up. I want to kill him. I hate the way he eats. He slops his food like a little hog. I would like to take him to Siberia. Lose him in a big snow pile. My brother says Tootie is something we have to live with. Why? Why do we have to? I have seen other things go by the wayside. The turtle we named Fastie, for instance. It was put on Gramp’s old record turn table and spun off into space. We searched the whole room. Fastie was gone like a snow melt.