My mother, Margaret, passed away on May 28, 2014. She and my father, Edwin, who passed away June 20, 2003, raised me as their own, from my 3rd birthday, until I turned 19, and left the nest...and beyond. I started calling them Mom and Dad when I was in first grade, because I wanted to be more like the other kids at school. Everybody had Moms and Dads, not Grandmas and Grandpas, raising them. My father's eyes misted over when I called him Dad, the first time, and I haven't stopped, since.
Dad taught me how to fix roofs, how to grow the perfect Roses, how to stick up for myself, and when to walk away. I was Daddy's Girl. We played catch in the yard. We worked on the cars. He let me shift the gears in our little red truck. He was my father; he truly adopted me.
Mom stayed at home with me. She taught me how to read and write. She taught me how to cook, and clean. She taught me when to be playful, and when to be serious. She taught me class, and when to bow out gracefully. She gave me the skills I needed to become a successful woman.
They taught me that blood does not mean family.
These two people gave up their retirement, their "easy years," to raise another child. They had already raised five, they didn't have to take me in, but they did, because I was family. Family was important to them. Who knows how my life would have ended up, if I hadn't been taken in by them.
My childhood, my teen and young adult years have been negated... The fact that my mother raised me, fed me, gave me a home when I would have ended up in foster care, or worse. None of that matters, any more. Because of one person's selfish need to be validated, my mother became not my mother in the span of one memorial service. My father became not my father, in that same time. I lost the only family I've ever known, because one person needed to feel important, better, justified...whatever it was.
During my mother's memorial, her children were asked to stand. her three sons, her daughter...but not me. Because of one person's selfishness, my name wasn't read.
Never mind the fact that she's the only mother I've ever known, and she earned the title of Mom. Never mind the fact that she would be as angry and upset as I am, to have the last 28 years erased, at the snap of a finger.
Nobody spoke up.
Nobody corrected.
I walked away, after the memorial service. A scene would have been justified; yelling would have been right. I could have deepened that person's grief. I could have corrected everyone's misconception of my parentage, but I didn't. I simply walked away.
Because my father taught me when I should walk away, and my mother taught me to be the bigger person.
Saturday, June 21, 2014
Friday, June 6, 2014
Fandoms
God, seriously...where do I start?
The most irritating thing to me is when a Fandom starts acting like their way of experiencing what they like is the only way. This happens a lot in the novel-to-movie, or comic book-to-movie genre. It's disgusting, and irritating, and I can't stand people who act superior to anybody, especially those who like the same things that they like.
There was a time, in our childhood, that we would see somebody with a tshirt, or lunchbox, of our fandom and suddenly be best friends with them. Now, it's all questions and useless trivia and hate.
"Have you even read the book?"
Well, no, but-
"Then you're not a real fan!"
Um...I kinda am, actually. I love-
"How can you say that you love it, when you know nothing about it?"
Because I know myself...? Why are you such a snob?
"I'm not a snob! I'm a REAL FAN!"
...
And, on it goes...
It's un-fucking-believable that there are people in any fandom that act like that, but they're everywhere. Along with the "Quizzers" are the "Spoilers". I have carry an avid hatred for people who try to ruin somebody's fun. These are the Game of Thrones people, the Divergent people, the ones who purposely post on social media about major plot points, and spoil the ending.
What's the point of that? Do you feel superior, now that you've ruined somebody's chance of enjoying the same fucking thing that you enjoy?
Does it make you feel tough, or smart?
Fuck. Off.
I read the Lord of the Rings series, and The Hobbit, when I was in middle school. When the LotR movies came out, I didn't spoil anything. I watched the movies, and my friends' reactions to the things I knew were about to happen. It's an amazing thing, watching somebody experience something for the first time. It's like experiencing it, for yourself, as a newbie.
Same thing with Harry Potter.
Same with Eragon.
And Hulk.
And Batman.
Yet, there are these bratty children out there, now, who spoil the fun of everything that comes out.
I've never read Divergent. And, now, I'm not going to bother watching the movie, because I know how it ends. The franchise lost a potential fan, because of other fans.
Mind-blowing. And idiotic. And fucking childish.
The most irritating thing to me is when a Fandom starts acting like their way of experiencing what they like is the only way. This happens a lot in the novel-to-movie, or comic book-to-movie genre. It's disgusting, and irritating, and I can't stand people who act superior to anybody, especially those who like the same things that they like.
There was a time, in our childhood, that we would see somebody with a tshirt, or lunchbox, of our fandom and suddenly be best friends with them. Now, it's all questions and useless trivia and hate.
"Have you even read the book?"
Well, no, but-
"Then you're not a real fan!"
Um...I kinda am, actually. I love-
"How can you say that you love it, when you know nothing about it?"
Because I know myself...? Why are you such a snob?
"I'm not a snob! I'm a REAL FAN!"
...
And, on it goes...
It's un-fucking-believable that there are people in any fandom that act like that, but they're everywhere. Along with the "Quizzers" are the "Spoilers". I have carry an avid hatred for people who try to ruin somebody's fun. These are the Game of Thrones people, the Divergent people, the ones who purposely post on social media about major plot points, and spoil the ending.
What's the point of that? Do you feel superior, now that you've ruined somebody's chance of enjoying the same fucking thing that you enjoy?
Does it make you feel tough, or smart?
Fuck. Off.
I read the Lord of the Rings series, and The Hobbit, when I was in middle school. When the LotR movies came out, I didn't spoil anything. I watched the movies, and my friends' reactions to the things I knew were about to happen. It's an amazing thing, watching somebody experience something for the first time. It's like experiencing it, for yourself, as a newbie.
Same thing with Harry Potter.
Same with Eragon.
And Hulk.
And Batman.
Yet, there are these bratty children out there, now, who spoil the fun of everything that comes out.
I've never read Divergent. And, now, I'm not going to bother watching the movie, because I know how it ends. The franchise lost a potential fan, because of other fans.
Mind-blowing. And idiotic. And fucking childish.
Friday, May 30, 2014
The Collie
My parents used to tell me stories about my grandfather, on my dad’s side. He was a very religious man, and was very in-tune with the teachings of the Bible. He was also a Medium, of sorts; he attributed his skills as a gift from God. He never claimed to be a shaman, or anything, but he was sometimes accused of being a Satanist, because of his gifts. People in the late 1800s always blamed things they didn’t understand on witchcraft and devilry. Hell, we do that, today, don’t we?
Dad told me stories about how grand-dad was able to just touch somebody, or talk to them, and whatever was ailing them would fade away. I never met the man, nor do I even know his name, but I feel a sort of spiritual connection with him, through my parents’ stories.
The story that stuck with me, the most, and still gives me chills, is the story about The Collie. The story goes that grand-dad loved dogs, but was weary of strays, especially Collies, and all-black dogs. Collies are a death omen. He used to say that if a stray Collie was to enter your yard, it will announce the death of a person close to you. The dogs will appear usually a couple days early, and leave on their own accord. You can't force them away. As they leave, they will sit next to you and howl, then look toward the person who is dying.
I became a believer of that one, last night.
I had a dream about a Collie, and it terrified me. I was sitting on my front porch, having a cigarette, when the dog came trotting up my driveway. In my dream, I kicked at the dog, and screamed, and tried to scare it away, but it sat, and calmly howled, then looked West. The hospital where my mother was admitted to, is West of my house. I screamed “NO!” The dog came up to me, and laid its head on my lap as I cried.
I woke, this morning, to my phone ringing.
My mother had passed away in her sleep. I firmly believe that the dream was her way of saying goodbye to me, the only way she could. She’s gone to heaven, to be with my dad, now, and I’m happy that she’s no longer suffering. I’m also so deeply saddened, as most people are, by death. I miss her like crazy, and my heart hurts. I’m happy, though, that she has reunited with the man she spent 49 years on Earth with, and spend the rest of eternity in bliss. If anybody deserves peace and happiness, it’s her.
Rest in peace, Mom. I’ll see you again, some day.
Saturday, April 26, 2014
Feminism
This is a long one to illustrate a single point about "fuckboys" and why I am perpetually single... Bear with me.
I was raised in a misogynistic household. Sure, my father taught me how to throw a ball, and work on cars, and he made sure that I had dreams...as long as my dreams included being a wife. Because, through all the lessons he taught me, it always remained clear: a woman's place was in the home.
As we would work on the car, he would say little things that I would smile and nod at, because I was too young to truly understand the meaning of them.
"We'll teach you how to change your own oil, so you can take care of yourself until a husband comes along."
"You need to know how to change your tire, just in case it blows out when your husband isn't with you."
I didn't understand what he meant, only that he wanted his daughter to know how to take care of herself. Best father ever!
As I got older, and got into my first serious relationship, my father stopped teaching me things.
"You have your boyfriend, now. You don't need to know that."
I was hurt by it, because I only saw that my dad didn't want to spend time with me.
I didn't get it. My father, for as good a man as he was, was a misogynist. I carried those values with me through a lot of my social interactions. I never expressed my opinion around boys at school, but would talk animatedly with other girls. Even now, as a 30-year-old woman, I have a hard time speaking up, sometimes. I'm getting better.
A man sent me a message on a dating site, the other day, so I checked out his profile. As soon as I saw that he was still married, I sent him a simple message...well, here, I'll let you read the exchange for yourself:
The test he is referring to is a joke I have at the beginning of my profile. It states that there will be a test afterwards, because my profile is...basically a novel. His response to my "You're married." message seems pretty innocuous, but I've been down this road before.
Whoa. Just...whoa, dude.
That came out of left field. He was interested in me, until I turned him down flat. It took me several tries to get the message worded correctly, too. I am very careful when I turn men down, because of this reason. I hate being flat-out insulted because men can't handle the idea that a woman doesn't want to talk to them. My first thought was, "Hey, that hurt." Then, I was angry. I am fed up with these little boys who think that women are here to serve them. I usually don't respond to these types of messages, but this time:
This time I spoke up. I tried to stay as civil as possible, but that didn't last long. I am so boiled-over with anger at men that I cannot continue to sit on the wall and not say anything. This time, I stand up. This time, my voice will be the loudest one in the room.
Women deserve to be able to have a normal exchange with someone, without fear that they are going to be personally insulted, the second their opinion doesn't line up with the male's. Women deserve the same respect as men, period. We deserve to be heard, and listened to.
No, I'm not a feminazi. I'm not a bitch. I'm not any of those other colorful words which have been thrown my way. I am a woman, and a human being, and I deserve respect. I deserve to have the same voice as a man's, and I deserve to have my opinion valued. I don't deserve to be called fat or ugly, just because I didn't swoon when a man spoke to me.
I deserve to be treated like a fucking human being, because that's what I am!
You don't have to be nice to me, or any other woman, just don't be an asshole.
It's really not that hard to not be an asshole.
I was raised in a misogynistic household. Sure, my father taught me how to throw a ball, and work on cars, and he made sure that I had dreams...as long as my dreams included being a wife. Because, through all the lessons he taught me, it always remained clear: a woman's place was in the home.
As we would work on the car, he would say little things that I would smile and nod at, because I was too young to truly understand the meaning of them.
"We'll teach you how to change your own oil, so you can take care of yourself until a husband comes along."
"You need to know how to change your tire, just in case it blows out when your husband isn't with you."
I didn't understand what he meant, only that he wanted his daughter to know how to take care of herself. Best father ever!
As I got older, and got into my first serious relationship, my father stopped teaching me things.
"You have your boyfriend, now. You don't need to know that."
I was hurt by it, because I only saw that my dad didn't want to spend time with me.
I didn't get it. My father, for as good a man as he was, was a misogynist. I carried those values with me through a lot of my social interactions. I never expressed my opinion around boys at school, but would talk animatedly with other girls. Even now, as a 30-year-old woman, I have a hard time speaking up, sometimes. I'm getting better.
A man sent me a message on a dating site, the other day, so I checked out his profile. As soon as I saw that he was still married, I sent him a simple message...well, here, I'll let you read the exchange for yourself:
The test he is referring to is a joke I have at the beginning of my profile. It states that there will be a test afterwards, because my profile is...basically a novel. His response to my "You're married." message seems pretty innocuous, but I've been down this road before.
Whoa. Just...whoa, dude.
That came out of left field. He was interested in me, until I turned him down flat. It took me several tries to get the message worded correctly, too. I am very careful when I turn men down, because of this reason. I hate being flat-out insulted because men can't handle the idea that a woman doesn't want to talk to them. My first thought was, "Hey, that hurt." Then, I was angry. I am fed up with these little boys who think that women are here to serve them. I usually don't respond to these types of messages, but this time:
This time I spoke up. I tried to stay as civil as possible, but that didn't last long. I am so boiled-over with anger at men that I cannot continue to sit on the wall and not say anything. This time, I stand up. This time, my voice will be the loudest one in the room.
Women deserve to be able to have a normal exchange with someone, without fear that they are going to be personally insulted, the second their opinion doesn't line up with the male's. Women deserve the same respect as men, period. We deserve to be heard, and listened to.
No, I'm not a feminazi. I'm not a bitch. I'm not any of those other colorful words which have been thrown my way. I am a woman, and a human being, and I deserve respect. I deserve to have the same voice as a man's, and I deserve to have my opinion valued. I don't deserve to be called fat or ugly, just because I didn't swoon when a man spoke to me.
I deserve to be treated like a fucking human being, because that's what I am!
You don't have to be nice to me, or any other woman, just don't be an asshole.
It's really not that hard to not be an asshole.
Thursday, April 17, 2014
Women Are Human
Jesus I'm in a mood, today.
I can't seem to shake this feeling of irritability, and I don't know exactly what triggered it.
I saw a post on Tumblr, this morning that caused me great rage. I saw a post on Facebook that made me sick to my stomach. Maybe today just isn't the day for social media. Maybe today is one of those days I should have just stayed in bed.
I need to write, though, or I may just snap.
First off, if you disagree with anything I say in this post, you can kindly fuck off. Yes. For this post, I am taking a stand. Either you agree with me, or you're wrong. Period.
Rape victims.
Are.
Never.
To.
Blame.
There is no reason or situation where the phrase, "Well, if you were more careful, this wouldn't have happened." is acceptable. NO!
"If you would wear more modest clothing, you wouldn't have gotten raped."
"Maybe you should put more clothes on!"
"Stop wearing tight pants!"
"Damn, baby, you look so good, I could rape you."
The fury I am feeling is all-consuming.
How dare you make the victim of a violent attack feel guilty?
How dare you make a woman feel guilty for wearing what she feels comfortable in?
How dare you use that word as a synonym for sex?
How dare you?
The Rape Culture is sickening. It's purely disgusting. Those of you who condone this type of behavior are no better than the predators themselves. Those of you who tell women to carry mace to protect themselves, because, well, "men are just men" are fucking sick.
It isn't just full-grown women who are taught that they are always responsible for their safety, and if they get hurt, then they are to blame...at least a little bit.
Little girls are being told that their pants, or their dresses, or their shirts are "inappropriate" because they distract boys, or because there are predators out there who will take advantage of the way they're dressed.
We're standing aside and allowing people to fill our daughters and nieces with fear, over their clothing choices. We're making them self-conscious from a very young age, and it saddens me. These little girls become more fashion-oriented, than science or math oriented, all because of some off-hand comment that adults made.
"Is this dress good enough?"
"Are these pants too tight?"
..."Will I be hurt if I wear this?"
Those are the questions our daughters are asking in the mornings, instead of:
"Do I have my homework done?"
"Is there going to be a test today?"
"Should I study on the bus, just in case?"
Why are we allowing this to go on?
We need to stop making little girls, and women, feel like the only important thing about them is how they look. This includes the "slut shaming" and putting down women for being too fat, or too skinny, or too tall, or too short, or too blonde, or not blonde enough. Focus on what's important. Focus on the kind of people they will be when they grow up.
Do you want your daughter to keep her opinions to herself, in front of men, because she's afraid of being rejected?
Do you want your niece to feel guilty because a predator attacked her?
Do you want your mother to be more concerned with her new tube of lipstick than her heart medicine? (My mother...)
No. Of course you don't. You want them to be treated with respect, not because they're women, but because they earned that respect by never backing down, by standing up for their beliefs, and by being human.
It's really that simple.
Women are just as human as men.
We all deserve the same treatment.
I can't seem to shake this feeling of irritability, and I don't know exactly what triggered it.
I saw a post on Tumblr, this morning that caused me great rage. I saw a post on Facebook that made me sick to my stomach. Maybe today just isn't the day for social media. Maybe today is one of those days I should have just stayed in bed.
I need to write, though, or I may just snap.
First off, if you disagree with anything I say in this post, you can kindly fuck off. Yes. For this post, I am taking a stand. Either you agree with me, or you're wrong. Period.
Rape victims.
Are.
Never.
To.
Blame.
There is no reason or situation where the phrase, "Well, if you were more careful, this wouldn't have happened." is acceptable. NO!
"If you would wear more modest clothing, you wouldn't have gotten raped."
"Maybe you should put more clothes on!"
"Stop wearing tight pants!"
"Damn, baby, you look so good, I could rape you."
The fury I am feeling is all-consuming.
How dare you make the victim of a violent attack feel guilty?
How dare you make a woman feel guilty for wearing what she feels comfortable in?
How dare you use that word as a synonym for sex?
How dare you?
The Rape Culture is sickening. It's purely disgusting. Those of you who condone this type of behavior are no better than the predators themselves. Those of you who tell women to carry mace to protect themselves, because, well, "men are just men" are fucking sick.
It isn't just full-grown women who are taught that they are always responsible for their safety, and if they get hurt, then they are to blame...at least a little bit.
Little girls are being told that their pants, or their dresses, or their shirts are "inappropriate" because they distract boys, or because there are predators out there who will take advantage of the way they're dressed.
We're standing aside and allowing people to fill our daughters and nieces with fear, over their clothing choices. We're making them self-conscious from a very young age, and it saddens me. These little girls become more fashion-oriented, than science or math oriented, all because of some off-hand comment that adults made.
"Is this dress good enough?"
"Are these pants too tight?"
..."Will I be hurt if I wear this?"
Those are the questions our daughters are asking in the mornings, instead of:
"Do I have my homework done?"
"Is there going to be a test today?"
"Should I study on the bus, just in case?"
Why are we allowing this to go on?
We need to stop making little girls, and women, feel like the only important thing about them is how they look. This includes the "slut shaming" and putting down women for being too fat, or too skinny, or too tall, or too short, or too blonde, or not blonde enough. Focus on what's important. Focus on the kind of people they will be when they grow up.
Do you want your daughter to keep her opinions to herself, in front of men, because she's afraid of being rejected?
Do you want your niece to feel guilty because a predator attacked her?
Do you want your mother to be more concerned with her new tube of lipstick than her heart medicine? (My mother...)
No. Of course you don't. You want them to be treated with respect, not because they're women, but because they earned that respect by never backing down, by standing up for their beliefs, and by being human.
It's really that simple.
Women are just as human as men.
We all deserve the same treatment.
Thursday, April 3, 2014
Pets: Part Two
Heartbreak
I've delayed posting this one, for a while now. I think it's about time to share the story of three baby kittens who touched my heart in a profound way, while they were on this Earth. Here goes:
My sister and I have decided to split the responsibility of hand-rearing three abandoned feral kittens. Apparently, Mama Kitty had six, and left these three behind. It's understandable, since she's fighting to feed herself. Six babies would have overwhelmed her. It's the nature of the beast, and it sucks, but that's where awesome rescues come in, and volunteers like us step up!
I'm honored to get the chance to try and save these little guys' lives, and raise them to be awesome house-cats!
At the moment, I'm sleep-deprived, irritable, and starting to wonder if it was such a good idea...and it's only been ONE DAY!
(I'm really not cut out for this "Mom" thing...)
The last 24-hours of my life:
Yesterday, March 22, 2014
HOUR ONE! (Roughly 16:00, or 4 P.M.)
I'm really, really excited! I haven't bottle-fed a kitten for almost a decade, but I'm sure it's just like riding a bike, right? ...er...right??
Alright...
"Step one: put formula in bottle." ..alright easy enough.
"Step two: warm formula." ..ok...? how? Do I microwave the bottle? NO! Bad. Uh...OH! OH! Boil water in the microwave, and place the bottle inside the water! I. Am. A. Genius!
"Step three: test temperature of formu-" OW! SHIT, THAT'S HOT! *glare*
*amended* "Step three-and-a-half: let formula cool."...
"Step four: FEED THE KITTENS!!" ...alright...um...open up! Open...UP! Um...hmm...please open up? *quickly put bottle in kitten's mouth mid-squeak* HA! I win. :P
HOUR TWO!
Repeat all steps from hour one, for two more kittens...then the fun part!
"Rub the genitalia of the kittens so they can poop and pee."...ewwww!
*rub rub rub* OH! Oh, GOD! How much did you eat?! *fights back gag* Oh, geez....oh, geez...oh, geez!
Ew! Ew! ...Oh, good, you're done! NEXT!
The next two kittens weren't as "backed-up" so there was far less gagging and cringing. Hey! Maybe I'm getting the hang of this! Place kittens back in warm box and relax for a minute!
HOUR FOUR!
Whoa, wait, what? It's already been two hours? It's time for another feeding...NOW? Gosh, can't I just take a breather?
*kitten screaming from within the shoe box*
... apparently not...
Warm formula, test temperature, let formula cool, feed...
erm...feed?
Please, may I feed you?
I promise you want this!
No, don't squirm!
HEY! Careful!
I'm going to drop you!
*slip bottle into kitten's mouth, mid-scream* (Wait, is that my scream, or his...?)
HA! I win, again! BOOYAH!
Help kitties go potty, again. It's far less gross, this time! Hooray for small victories!
HOUR SIX-AND-A-HALF! (roughly 22:30)
Wait...hey! How did the second feeding take longer than the first? I thought it went much smoother than that train-wreck of a first one!
Whatever...
Warm formula, test formuuuuu- *yaawwwnnnn* Oh, my...-la. That was a good one. Eye-watering, jaw-cracking...the whole works! Yup! Great yawn!
Feed- WAIT! Let it cool first, dummy!...*whistles* Sorry, little buddy. Almost scorched you, there...
...
*hums "I've got a lovely bunch of coconuts!"*
...
"...some as big as your head!"
Alright! Feed kittens! Aww...look at them! They're so adorable! They're finally figuring out this whole bottle thing!
.........................................................................................
This went on, pretty much around the clock for 24 hours. I dropped the kids off with my sister with the intention of getting some very-much needed sleep. I got about 4 hours of rest when my sister calls me, crying.
We'd lost the two black and white ones.
I hopped in the only car and high-tailed it to her house, to console her. I've been here, before. Losing babies is horrible. You always have that niggling feeling in the back of your mind that you did something wrong; that somehow, you killed them. She didn't do anything wrong, of course, but that's how it feels.
I was able to calm her down, and after a failed attempt at kitten CPR, we had her dad bury them. He even gave them a little grave marker, which was very touching.
Once the sorrow had abated, we both knew that we had to pour whatever was left of our hearts into the last remaining kitten...and we did.
I took over the care, the next morning, and spent the next twelve hours, or so, holding the baby, and coming up with a more efficient feeding method. He was the smallest and weakest of the three, and he was the survivor. I named him Ash.
I knew, in my mind, that the odds were stacked against him. He likely didn't get the colostrum (first milk) from his momma, so his immune system was very susceptible to disease and infection. I knew there was a damn good chance he wouldn't make it. Against my better judgement, I named him anyway. That's all it took. He had a name. He was in my heart.
He was eating like crazy, and I was able to get him to use the bathroom, after some coaxing and a tip from a local veterinarian. He was warm and he was active, and he seemed to be doing great!
Then, the next night, when I dropped him off at my sister's house, I noticed that he was acting strangely. He was bending his neck all the way back until his head was touching his shoulders. My heat sank. That's the same thing the other babies were doing, just a few hours before they passed over to Rainbow Bridge. I was staying on the couch at my sister's house, that night, because I wanted her to be completely comfortable with the new feeding method that he had taken to.
I got about 4 hours of sleep that night.
I took him back to my house that morning, fed him, bathroomed him, and got him warm. I was letting him rest in the box when I heard this pitiful little meow come from him. It sounded so weak. I peered inside and Ash was doing the neck arching thing again. I picked him up and he took his last big breath in my hands. I tried to resuscitate him, to no avail.
I cried and held him closely. Then, I took him to my sister's to be buried with his siblings.
It's heartbreaking to lose the little ones, especially because it's so easy to become attached to them. This isn't the first time I've seen newborn kittens die, but it was the first time it hit me so hard. This little 6-day-old baby wormed his way into my heart. I bonded with him, and he with me, I think. When he'd squeak, I'd hold him close to my chest, and he'd calm down. I talked to him, even though he probably couldn't hear me. I'd watch him sleep in his little shoe box.
The only solace I have from this whole experience, is that we gave that little guys 4 more days of full-bellies, and warm beds, than they would have had, if we hadn't volunteered to care for them. Ash and his littermates didn't die lonely and cold. They went out of this world warm and loved.
Times like this make me question my decision to become a Veterinary Assistant. How can I possibly be able to handle this kind of heart-break for the rest of my life? Am I really cut out for this? Yes. I just have to remind myself of the animals that I have helped save. My sister and I have taken in numerous stray and lost dogs, and reunited them with their families, over the last 10 years, or more. I remember bringing home stray animals when I was a kid. This is what I was meant to do. It's my calling.
Ash, and his story, will remain with me for the rest of my life. He will serve as my inspiration to continue to push through the pain and sorrow, to keep trying my hardest to save the lives of animals, to keep bringing strays into my home and showing them love and compassion.
Because of Ash, I will give every animal the opportunity to feel loved, and warm, and safe, before they leave this planet...
That's what they all deserve.
I've delayed posting this one, for a while now. I think it's about time to share the story of three baby kittens who touched my heart in a profound way, while they were on this Earth. Here goes:
My sister and I have decided to split the responsibility of hand-rearing three abandoned feral kittens. Apparently, Mama Kitty had six, and left these three behind. It's understandable, since she's fighting to feed herself. Six babies would have overwhelmed her. It's the nature of the beast, and it sucks, but that's where awesome rescues come in, and volunteers like us step up!
I'm honored to get the chance to try and save these little guys' lives, and raise them to be awesome house-cats!
At the moment, I'm sleep-deprived, irritable, and starting to wonder if it was such a good idea...and it's only been ONE DAY!
(I'm really not cut out for this "Mom" thing...)
The last 24-hours of my life:
Yesterday, March 22, 2014
HOUR ONE! (Roughly 16:00, or 4 P.M.)
I'm really, really excited! I haven't bottle-fed a kitten for almost a decade, but I'm sure it's just like riding a bike, right? ...er...right??
Alright...
"Step one: put formula in bottle." ..alright easy enough.
"Step two: warm formula." ..ok...? how? Do I microwave the bottle? NO! Bad. Uh...OH! OH! Boil water in the microwave, and place the bottle inside the water! I. Am. A. Genius!
"Step three: test temperature of formu-" OW! SHIT, THAT'S HOT! *glare*
*amended* "Step three-and-a-half: let formula cool."...
"Step four: FEED THE KITTENS!!" ...alright...um...open up! Open...UP! Um...hmm...please open up? *quickly put bottle in kitten's mouth mid-squeak* HA! I win. :P
HOUR TWO!
Repeat all steps from hour one, for two more kittens...then the fun part!
"Rub the genitalia of the kittens so they can poop and pee."...ewwww!
*rub rub rub* OH! Oh, GOD! How much did you eat?! *fights back gag* Oh, geez....oh, geez...oh, geez!
Ew! Ew! ...Oh, good, you're done! NEXT!
The next two kittens weren't as "backed-up" so there was far less gagging and cringing. Hey! Maybe I'm getting the hang of this! Place kittens back in warm box and relax for a minute!
HOUR FOUR!
Whoa, wait, what? It's already been two hours? It's time for another feeding...NOW? Gosh, can't I just take a breather?
*kitten screaming from within the shoe box*
... apparently not...
Warm formula, test temperature, let formula cool, feed...
erm...feed?
Please, may I feed you?
I promise you want this!
No, don't squirm!
HEY! Careful!
I'm going to drop you!
*slip bottle into kitten's mouth, mid-scream* (Wait, is that my scream, or his...?)
HA! I win, again! BOOYAH!
Help kitties go potty, again. It's far less gross, this time! Hooray for small victories!
HOUR SIX-AND-A-HALF! (roughly 22:30)
Wait...hey! How did the second feeding take longer than the first? I thought it went much smoother than that train-wreck of a first one!
Whatever...
Warm formula, test formuuuuu- *yaawwwnnnn* Oh, my...-la. That was a good one. Eye-watering, jaw-cracking...the whole works! Yup! Great yawn!
Feed- WAIT! Let it cool first, dummy!...*whistles* Sorry, little buddy. Almost scorched you, there...
...
*hums "I've got a lovely bunch of coconuts!"*
...
"...some as big as your head!"
Alright! Feed kittens! Aww...look at them! They're so adorable! They're finally figuring out this whole bottle thing!
.........................................................................................
This went on, pretty much around the clock for 24 hours. I dropped the kids off with my sister with the intention of getting some very-much needed sleep. I got about 4 hours of rest when my sister calls me, crying.
We'd lost the two black and white ones.
I hopped in the only car and high-tailed it to her house, to console her. I've been here, before. Losing babies is horrible. You always have that niggling feeling in the back of your mind that you did something wrong; that somehow, you killed them. She didn't do anything wrong, of course, but that's how it feels.
I was able to calm her down, and after a failed attempt at kitten CPR, we had her dad bury them. He even gave them a little grave marker, which was very touching.
Once the sorrow had abated, we both knew that we had to pour whatever was left of our hearts into the last remaining kitten...and we did.
I took over the care, the next morning, and spent the next twelve hours, or so, holding the baby, and coming up with a more efficient feeding method. He was the smallest and weakest of the three, and he was the survivor. I named him Ash.
I knew, in my mind, that the odds were stacked against him. He likely didn't get the colostrum (first milk) from his momma, so his immune system was very susceptible to disease and infection. I knew there was a damn good chance he wouldn't make it. Against my better judgement, I named him anyway. That's all it took. He had a name. He was in my heart.
He was eating like crazy, and I was able to get him to use the bathroom, after some coaxing and a tip from a local veterinarian. He was warm and he was active, and he seemed to be doing great!
Then, the next night, when I dropped him off at my sister's house, I noticed that he was acting strangely. He was bending his neck all the way back until his head was touching his shoulders. My heat sank. That's the same thing the other babies were doing, just a few hours before they passed over to Rainbow Bridge. I was staying on the couch at my sister's house, that night, because I wanted her to be completely comfortable with the new feeding method that he had taken to.
I got about 4 hours of sleep that night.
I took him back to my house that morning, fed him, bathroomed him, and got him warm. I was letting him rest in the box when I heard this pitiful little meow come from him. It sounded so weak. I peered inside and Ash was doing the neck arching thing again. I picked him up and he took his last big breath in my hands. I tried to resuscitate him, to no avail.
I cried and held him closely. Then, I took him to my sister's to be buried with his siblings.
It's heartbreaking to lose the little ones, especially because it's so easy to become attached to them. This isn't the first time I've seen newborn kittens die, but it was the first time it hit me so hard. This little 6-day-old baby wormed his way into my heart. I bonded with him, and he with me, I think. When he'd squeak, I'd hold him close to my chest, and he'd calm down. I talked to him, even though he probably couldn't hear me. I'd watch him sleep in his little shoe box.
The only solace I have from this whole experience, is that we gave that little guys 4 more days of full-bellies, and warm beds, than they would have had, if we hadn't volunteered to care for them. Ash and his littermates didn't die lonely and cold. They went out of this world warm and loved.
Times like this make me question my decision to become a Veterinary Assistant. How can I possibly be able to handle this kind of heart-break for the rest of my life? Am I really cut out for this? Yes. I just have to remind myself of the animals that I have helped save. My sister and I have taken in numerous stray and lost dogs, and reunited them with their families, over the last 10 years, or more. I remember bringing home stray animals when I was a kid. This is what I was meant to do. It's my calling.
Ash, and his story, will remain with me for the rest of my life. He will serve as my inspiration to continue to push through the pain and sorrow, to keep trying my hardest to save the lives of animals, to keep bringing strays into my home and showing them love and compassion.
Because of Ash, I will give every animal the opportunity to feel loved, and warm, and safe, before they leave this planet...
That's what they all deserve.
Friday, March 14, 2014
Pets: Part One
This is a new one for me, ironically. When I consider how much my pets rule my life, I'm shocked I haven't written more about the treatment and care of our pets. Really! I have 4 cats, a German Shepherd, and my sister and I are forever picking up and rehoming strays. So, now that I've had an epiphany, with the help of said sister, I am going to start a series of blog posts about pets. I have no clue how many "Parts" this series is going to be broken up into...10? 15? ...108? Who knows?!
These pet posts will be available at: http://simplyfurry.blogspot.com/ as well as here on my personal blog.
Aaaaand, here we go:
Topic #1: PETS ARE FOREVER!
If you commit yourself to doing hours of research, driving to the pet store, breeder, or local shelter, paying the adoption/purchase fee, buying food, beds, toys, tanks, filters, heat lamps, I.D. tags, and whatever else your animal requires, you're committing yourself to caring for an animal for the rest of its natural life.
Pets are not status symbols. They're not a method to "keep up with the Joneses." They're not toys. They're not anniversary gifts. They're not temporary distractions from heartache. They're not lawn ornaments.
They are a life-time commitment. Period.
With this commitment comes a lot of responsibility. You know what responsibility is, if you're over the age of ten. Your parents (if they were worth their salt), your teachers, your pastor, they all tried to teach you how to be responsible for your decisions, how to own up and follow-through with your commitments. They wanted you to be a person whose word is solid and reliable. Don't forget that when you bring an animal into your home.
Dogs typically live between 7 and 15 years, cats can be as old as 20, birds and turtles/tortoises live for decades! That's YEARS of costly vet visits, thousands of pounds of food, gallons upon gallons of water, millions of little pet turds to clean up, hundreds of training hours, and every drop of blood, sweat, and tears that you're capable of shedding.
I think you get the point I'm trying to make, especially if you're an animal lover like myself.
I decided that this post would be the first one, because this is the one that hits closest to home...
My roommates/landlords have an affinity for trying to one-up, people. Their friends get a new car, they get one a year newer. New TV at the neighbor's? Well, theirs is 3-inches bigger! Et cetera! A little competition among friends is good, and to be completely honest, it's just FUN! However, when you bring that competition and desire to be better than your friends, into your choice to get a pet, you...well, you just plain piss me off!
Case in point: My Leonidis, the pain-in-the-ass German Shepherd.
My landlords got Leo (then short for Leonardo) because their coworkers got a GSD puppy, and "Aw, look how cute it is!"
*sigh*
German Shepherds are not a lazy man's dog. Believe me, this dog is no exception!
This adorable pup (now nearly two years old) came into a house with a spoiled Pomeranian (don't even get me started with that thing...), and two cats, not including my clutch of cats that live in my trailer with me. My roommates' hearts were in the right place, but they just plain didn't have the patience or drive to give this dog what he needed, at an early age, to make him a well-balanced adult. I told them that they needed to train him, because they kept getting upset that he was pooping in the house, or chewing on cords/shoes/the couch. I told them that GSDs need a lot of maintenance, and training, or they go a little...bonkers...yeah, that's a good word!
Their response?
"We'll deal with it later."
REALLY RIGHT NOW?!
Well, as you have probably figured out, "later" never came. Leo's behavior got worse, because he was never taught what not to do, or how to act. He was never socialized with other dogs, or people. Eventually, they decided that they couldn't "deal with him" because he was "dangerous". (He wasn't dangerous. Just bored out of his skull.) He ran over their grandkid, he nipped, he jumped on people, he destroyed everything he could get his teeth on; he was just...bonkers. So, they decided to get rid of him.
I just...
Grrr...
My sister and I said, "No, you're not!"
She decided to take him in, and help him. He needed a lot of it. The only problem with her having him was that she was working 12-hour days, and the roommates she had weren't exactly...responsible enough for her to trust to take care of him when she wasn't there, so he continued with the destructive behavior, even though he did make a vast improvement. When she was home, he was an angel, but he reverted as soon as she left. It was an unhealthy cycle that eventually stressed them both out. Then, he jumped into her neighbor's yard, one day, and her neighbor threatened to shoot Leo. That went over like a ton of bricks, and Leo came back here, under my care.
I have been his official owner, now, for about 3 months and he is a completely different dog. He gets regular exercise. He has rules and boundaries, and he is disciplined when he's being a dick. He's bitten me, a couple times, because he was never properly socialized, he's destroyed (and I mean d-e-s-t-r-o-y-e-d) some of my things. He's chased my cats. He's done all kinds of things that people usually send their pets to the pound for.
I didn't.
I stuck with him, and I pushed through the frustration and the tears, and even the blood, and one day it just clicked. We had a bond, and I was the pack leader. It wasn't easy, and I still consider him a "work in progress", but I've seen enough of a change in him to be able to see that light at the end of the tunnel. I was exhausted and sore, and frustrated beyond belief for the first couple weeks, but I stuck to my guns, and I didn't give him an inch, and now the jumping has all but stopped, the chewing only happens when he doesn't get his daily run, the charging after kids/other dogs/cats has slowed (with the exception of my orange tabby, with whom Leo likes to play tag...there is nothing funnier than an 8-pound-cat chasing a 100-pound-dog around the yard).
That's what I'm trying to tell you people who like to pick up and dump animals left-and-right. To those of you who get rid of animals because they destroyed your favorite shoes, or because they grew out of being "cute, or because you're simply bored with them, or because they got diarrhea on your new carpet, or because you had a baby. The animals only act out because you let them. Period.
If you cannot take control of a lesser-species, how the hell do you expect to be successful as a manager, or a parent?
...?
Seriously, though, if you can't control your dog, how the hell are you going to control a group of humans who are probably smarter than you?
Yes that was harsh. Yes, I probably insulted you. No, I don't care.
When it comes down to the choice between a human's feelings and an animal's well-being, I will side with the animal. Every. Time.
Honor your commitment to your four-, two-, no-legged pets.
Yes, there are times when it is in the best interest of the animal that you give up ownership to somebody who is more capable of caring for them. But none of those reasons are ever because you WANT to. Those reasons only come out of need, and those reasons will break your heart, every time.
I've had to rehome pets in my lifetime, because I was homeless, or because my Big Boy (my oldest tabby) was getting attacked. I rehomed a pitbull, because I was living with people who wanted to start a dog-fighting ring, and I had nowhere else to live. I have never rehomed an animal because they were an inconvenience. And, I have cried, as each one of those animals walked out my front door for the last time.
If it doesn't break your heart to "get rid" of them, then don't get rid of them. Find another way to fix whatever problem you're having with them. Change your own routine. Do whatever you possibly can to care for them, and then some, because that's what you signed up for.
Don't back out of the contract because of a little bit of adversity. Cleaning diarrhea out of the carpeting, replacing chewed up shoes, repairing window screens and, yes, even whole doors, are all small potatoes when you consider that no matter how shitty your day was, no matter how many people screamed at you, or how worthless the outside world made you feel, to that animal, you are the one. You are it. You are literally their whole world and they rely on you for their food, their shelter, their drink of water. They don't play unless they play with you. They greet you at the door with open hearts and wagging tails, and lots of kitty purrs, in my case. You're their best-friend, and they will never, ever turn their back on you for anything, ever...
Even when you turn your back on them.
These pet posts will be available at: http://simplyfurry.blogspot.com/ as well as here on my personal blog.
Aaaaand, here we go:
Topic #1: PETS ARE FOREVER!
If you commit yourself to doing hours of research, driving to the pet store, breeder, or local shelter, paying the adoption/purchase fee, buying food, beds, toys, tanks, filters, heat lamps, I.D. tags, and whatever else your animal requires, you're committing yourself to caring for an animal for the rest of its natural life.
Pets are not status symbols. They're not a method to "keep up with the Joneses." They're not toys. They're not anniversary gifts. They're not temporary distractions from heartache. They're not lawn ornaments.
They are a life-time commitment. Period.
With this commitment comes a lot of responsibility. You know what responsibility is, if you're over the age of ten. Your parents (if they were worth their salt), your teachers, your pastor, they all tried to teach you how to be responsible for your decisions, how to own up and follow-through with your commitments. They wanted you to be a person whose word is solid and reliable. Don't forget that when you bring an animal into your home.
Dogs typically live between 7 and 15 years, cats can be as old as 20, birds and turtles/tortoises live for decades! That's YEARS of costly vet visits, thousands of pounds of food, gallons upon gallons of water, millions of little pet turds to clean up, hundreds of training hours, and every drop of blood, sweat, and tears that you're capable of shedding.
I think you get the point I'm trying to make, especially if you're an animal lover like myself.
I decided that this post would be the first one, because this is the one that hits closest to home...
My roommates/landlords have an affinity for trying to one-up, people. Their friends get a new car, they get one a year newer. New TV at the neighbor's? Well, theirs is 3-inches bigger! Et cetera! A little competition among friends is good, and to be completely honest, it's just FUN! However, when you bring that competition and desire to be better than your friends, into your choice to get a pet, you...well, you just plain piss me off!
Case in point: My Leonidis, the pain-in-the-ass German Shepherd.
My landlords got Leo (then short for Leonardo) because their coworkers got a GSD puppy, and "Aw, look how cute it is!"
*sigh*
German Shepherds are not a lazy man's dog. Believe me, this dog is no exception!
This adorable pup (now nearly two years old) came into a house with a spoiled Pomeranian (don't even get me started with that thing...), and two cats, not including my clutch of cats that live in my trailer with me. My roommates' hearts were in the right place, but they just plain didn't have the patience or drive to give this dog what he needed, at an early age, to make him a well-balanced adult. I told them that they needed to train him, because they kept getting upset that he was pooping in the house, or chewing on cords/shoes/the couch. I told them that GSDs need a lot of maintenance, and training, or they go a little...bonkers...yeah, that's a good word!
Their response?
"We'll deal with it later."
REALLY RIGHT NOW?!
Well, as you have probably figured out, "later" never came. Leo's behavior got worse, because he was never taught what not to do, or how to act. He was never socialized with other dogs, or people. Eventually, they decided that they couldn't "deal with him" because he was "dangerous". (He wasn't dangerous. Just bored out of his skull.) He ran over their grandkid, he nipped, he jumped on people, he destroyed everything he could get his teeth on; he was just...bonkers. So, they decided to get rid of him.
I just...
Grrr...
My sister and I said, "No, you're not!"
She decided to take him in, and help him. He needed a lot of it. The only problem with her having him was that she was working 12-hour days, and the roommates she had weren't exactly...responsible enough for her to trust to take care of him when she wasn't there, so he continued with the destructive behavior, even though he did make a vast improvement. When she was home, he was an angel, but he reverted as soon as she left. It was an unhealthy cycle that eventually stressed them both out. Then, he jumped into her neighbor's yard, one day, and her neighbor threatened to shoot Leo. That went over like a ton of bricks, and Leo came back here, under my care.
I have been his official owner, now, for about 3 months and he is a completely different dog. He gets regular exercise. He has rules and boundaries, and he is disciplined when he's being a dick. He's bitten me, a couple times, because he was never properly socialized, he's destroyed (and I mean d-e-s-t-r-o-y-e-d) some of my things. He's chased my cats. He's done all kinds of things that people usually send their pets to the pound for.
I didn't.
I stuck with him, and I pushed through the frustration and the tears, and even the blood, and one day it just clicked. We had a bond, and I was the pack leader. It wasn't easy, and I still consider him a "work in progress", but I've seen enough of a change in him to be able to see that light at the end of the tunnel. I was exhausted and sore, and frustrated beyond belief for the first couple weeks, but I stuck to my guns, and I didn't give him an inch, and now the jumping has all but stopped, the chewing only happens when he doesn't get his daily run, the charging after kids/other dogs/cats has slowed (with the exception of my orange tabby, with whom Leo likes to play tag...there is nothing funnier than an 8-pound-cat chasing a 100-pound-dog around the yard).
That's what I'm trying to tell you people who like to pick up and dump animals left-and-right. To those of you who get rid of animals because they destroyed your favorite shoes, or because they grew out of being "cute, or because you're simply bored with them, or because they got diarrhea on your new carpet, or because you had a baby. The animals only act out because you let them. Period.
If you cannot take control of a lesser-species, how the hell do you expect to be successful as a manager, or a parent?
...?
Seriously, though, if you can't control your dog, how the hell are you going to control a group of humans who are probably smarter than you?
Yes that was harsh. Yes, I probably insulted you. No, I don't care.
When it comes down to the choice between a human's feelings and an animal's well-being, I will side with the animal. Every. Time.
Honor your commitment to your four-, two-, no-legged pets.
Yes, there are times when it is in the best interest of the animal that you give up ownership to somebody who is more capable of caring for them. But none of those reasons are ever because you WANT to. Those reasons only come out of need, and those reasons will break your heart, every time.
I've had to rehome pets in my lifetime, because I was homeless, or because my Big Boy (my oldest tabby) was getting attacked. I rehomed a pitbull, because I was living with people who wanted to start a dog-fighting ring, and I had nowhere else to live. I have never rehomed an animal because they were an inconvenience. And, I have cried, as each one of those animals walked out my front door for the last time.
If it doesn't break your heart to "get rid" of them, then don't get rid of them. Find another way to fix whatever problem you're having with them. Change your own routine. Do whatever you possibly can to care for them, and then some, because that's what you signed up for.
Don't back out of the contract because of a little bit of adversity. Cleaning diarrhea out of the carpeting, replacing chewed up shoes, repairing window screens and, yes, even whole doors, are all small potatoes when you consider that no matter how shitty your day was, no matter how many people screamed at you, or how worthless the outside world made you feel, to that animal, you are the one. You are it. You are literally their whole world and they rely on you for their food, their shelter, their drink of water. They don't play unless they play with you. They greet you at the door with open hearts and wagging tails, and lots of kitty purrs, in my case. You're their best-friend, and they will never, ever turn their back on you for anything, ever...
Even when you turn your back on them.
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