When I lived as a boy, the cane was a reality of life and I felt its savage sting whenever my dad believed it would do me good. The cane was for use when other forms of discipline had failed to correct my behavior. I was usually given between 6 and 12 strokes and after stroke number 1 I was already regretting whatever behavior now saw me bending over. When dad had decided to cane me, I was always sent to fetch the cane for him. I hated this duty as I truly hated handling the cane, knowing what it felt like across my bottom. The key to the cane's lethal sting is its flexibility and sometimes I couldn't resist giving it a couple of trial swishes, although I generally wished I had not! But I never considered not fetching the cane and placing it ready for dad's use. Sometimes I would actually have to hand it to dad. This was always quite distressing as I knew exactly what he was going to do with it. Then it was time for dad to give me a lecture on my bad behavior and then