May 13, 2014

page eighteen


at times, even though it’s now been six years in a couple of weeks (today being 1 march 2014), it is still an ordeal to sit at a keyboard and try to write about these fourteen animals who were stolen from me. there have indeed been days over the last six years when I could do it, but today is one of the days when it falls very hard.

brainse was one of the two dogs who were stolen, and the other was her father, mishi.  she was eight and a half years old on the day she was ripped away from me, and from her father, and from her whole animal family. her name, for any few who may be interested, is pronounced bransha. at vets’ offices she was often called brainsey. while I could fully understand how that pronunciation was arrived at, it made me cringe. but most of the time I didn’t bother to correct people because they mostly didn’t care.

I often called her my big girl, or even my biggest girl, for she was, in  fact, the largest female animal I have ever owned. she was half rottweiler and half lab mix, but so was her sister, who was petite and of average weight. brainse took after the rottweiler side, with a barrel of a torso, and also a low thyroid condition that made her prone to weight gain. and, if mother tells the truth, a tendency to laziness that also made her prone to weight gain.

at one time, when she had gained and I had lost, brainse and I had the same weight: 117 pounds. later I went up some, and she went up to her peak, 120, but for a brief time we were the same.

brainse never wanted anything to change. why would she have? why would any dog enjoy seeing their household things be packed up and sent away, the home getting emptier, the dog’s territory being denuded. during the months that I was slowly packing up our things to go into storage before our illegal, retaliatory eviction, she would cast me frequent, questioning looks: Where are our things gone? What’s happening? and she started, about a month before the end, suddenly planting her butt in this spot or that when I took her outside, as if stating that I was not going to pack up that spot and take it away from her.  mishi and I would be walking on, and no brainse. I would backtrack to find her sitting in the chosen spot, gazing off, as she is in these two photos. when I spoke to her she would look at me as if to say: These are the places I love. I don’t want to leave them. and then she’d come with me.

yes, she liked to eat, and unlike her father and sister, she didn’t care much for running. her run was more of a lope. in her defense, she did have that low thyroid. it was under treatment and her hormone was testing normal for a long time, but she remained overweight. I’d try modest dieting, but she would become sad and depressed seeing less in her bowl than the other dogs had, and then it would be back to normal portions again. I simply could not bear the sorrow on her face, and the question What have I done wrong?, when she would eat up her half-portion and look around at the other dogs still going at their full ones. I am not strong with sorrowing animal eyes, and if there is anything I can do to relieve the sorrow, I will do it.

I’d take her to the woods and give her the same chance to exercise as mishi got, up in the woods in the mornings, but she just wasn’t into it. she liked to stroll. various trolls who came up to the property where we lived to do business with our deranged landlady and the others who had businesses there, would see me walking the parking lot with with brainse in the afternoons. their toxic ideas of making social chit-chat with me consisted of insulting my dog. “You ain’t been feedin’ that dog.” “That dog looks like it needs a snack.” and the smirks on their faces when they said these things were malicious. I’d run into it in this hellhole I call turners trolls many, many times: mocking the white rings around braon’s eyes, mocking one of my cats, mocking me too, and so on ad nauseam. my first reaction is always the desire to rake my nails down their faces. this I do not do, as I have control over my violent impulses.  second reaction is to want to say: “Were you brought up in a barn?” or “If you can’t say anything nice about a person’s animal, don’t say anything at all.”  or “Fuck you, cretin.” I don’t do this, either, (at least not most of the time), don’t slam them verbally, and I should. every time something like this happens and I shrink into silent hurt and rage, I regret it deeply. regret deeply that I don’t throw the poison of these trolls right back at them.

there is so much more to say about her, and I’m sure I’ll never say it all.  I don’t have trouble remembering the stolen animals if I’m doing it in conversation, if there is response, if there is someone willing to hear about them. but sitting here at a ridiculous computer writing to nobody, I often encounter that extreme reluctance to dig out the memories, to excavate the sorrow and the fury that come along with those memories.



read…    All my stars…  Mugsy’s book

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five years

March 18, 2013

Page Seventeen


yes, now it’s five years. the latest anniversary was last week. in my woefully slow writing of my online books, another year has vanished with only a few pages added here. but what’s the rush? it’s not as if I have a publisher waiting for a manuscript. it’s not as if I were a real writer, or as if anyone anywhere, besides myself, cares whether or not this book is ever finished.

in any case, every year that I can manage it, I go to the hotel parking lot in greenfield where I last walked, medicated and fed my two stolen dogs, brainse and mishi. I do this on the second tuesday in march, which is when this hotel visit actually happened in 2008. that’s just one of the anniversary rituals I try to manage every year, with varying degrees of success.

there are those among you who will say I shouldn’t still feel these things so keenly… not after five years. I’m not made that way. nor am I responsible for the way I am made. so many of these things happen in the womb, in the configuration of neurons, of brain chemicals. it was the worst event of my life, the most devastating, the most damaging. I do still feel it very keenly. at the anniversary, and at other times as well. I’m extremely weary, and also contemptuous, of other people’s irritation that I am not over this trauma. love is love and grief is grief… in each person these things take whatever form they take. and cruelty is cruelty. each person responds to that in their individual manner, as well.

march remains, even after five years, the darkest, heaviest and saddest month on the calendar, with february (for different reasons) running a screamingly close second place. I can’t undertake much in march. I manage what activity I can manage, which isn’t a lot. I take more anxiety medication, which I normally use very sparingly. I am more dead inside than usual in march.

some people have told me, over my five years of writing online, that my spirit is alive, and well, that they can see this in my writing and in the artsy-ness of parts of my website. I really don’t know why they say such things. are they trying to encourage me? are they just arguing with me, determined that they shall be right? are they simply in denial, refusing to see how damaging the events of 2008 were? I don’t know the answer, don’t know what’s ticking in their minds, both conscious and un. I only know I’m sick of such observations. I, apparently, am the only person who knows who I was before this holocaust. I know how I felt, what dreams I still had, what those animals were to me, and the future hours and days that were taken from us. only I can feel, every day, what is different now from then. what in my inner world, my inmost self, has been changed for good by 2008.

no man is an island, said john donne. that is only true on one level. on another level, we are only islands, and can never change that. not unless we are lucky enough to have a true soulmate. and many people who have mates do have soulmates. the deepest kind of bonding, and of sharing, and of understanding, is the only thing that can ever alter the island-ness of the human being. this depth with another human being is something I don’t have.


read…    kaikenlainen (a brother)…      lucked out (my father)…

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aram and abel

June 20, 2012

Page Sixteen

It’s probably doing them an injustice, but I always think of Aram and Abel as a pair, whereas I don’t do this with the other set of brothers, Ziidjian and Chan. But Aram and Abel stuck to each other like glue for about the first five years of their lives, in a way that the other brothers didn’t, though the other two certainly had a bond. Chan and Ziidjian were my black brunette brothers, and Aram and Abel were the blondies, like their mother. Abel was tan (or “buff”, as some snooties once called it), and Aram orange. They both tended to bullyhood when they were feeling insecure, but Abel was much stronger in this role than his brother was. Aram was more of a people cuddler than Abel, and liked tokiss faces and make squeaky noises. Abel was invested in overseeing the household and making sure all animals were behaving themselves, as he himself defined behaving.

But get these boys outdoors, and they literally cried for their mama, namely me. They never even saw the outdoors until they were three years old, and they did not like it. They would stay out there reasonably happily if I stayed with them, but as soon as I went in, the howling and scratching at the door began. And I mean howling and scratching. As if someone were pulling out their fingernails. Such tough guys. They were odd cats in some ways, maybe not quite all there in some hard-to-define way, like their mother and their sister. Though their mother was very sweet and never bullied anyone, so they must have got that trait from the old man, whoever that was. The mating of their mother, Laxa, was not a deliberate one, but rather was due to my inadequate repair of a hole in a screen door. As birth time got nearer, I prepared her a nest box, but she wanted no part of it. Late that morning I left for about five hours of shopping and lunching and general social time with my friend. Laxa had been fine. Lying on a bed grooming herself. No sign of the onset of labor.

What a day of panic that was — a mother about to give birth had disappeared into thin air. I got home and could not find her. I feared she had whizzed out the door when I left and kittens were being born outdoors somewhere where I’d never find them. And yet I knew she hadn’t got out the door  –  I’d been very careful about that. But where the hell was she? At last I went into the largest bedroom, to check in there for the umpteenth time. There was Laxa sitting on a windowsill. She hadn’t been there any of the dozen other times I’d looked. She was no longer pregnant. The search for the mother over, now the hunt for the kittens began. When I finally found them more than an hour later, they were right beside that very windowsill, at the bottom of a pile of dirty laundry that was, I kid you not, ten feet high. The washing machine had broken, and I’d gotten very behind. I hauled the kittens out, examined and admired, put them into a wicker dog bed in the bathroom and shut their mother in there with them where I would know where they were. No more hours of bloody anxiety. Then I collapsed in exhaustion. Animals can always surprise; my decades of living among them and caring for them and sharing life with them certainly taught me that. In retrospect, this birth at the bottom of a tower of dirty clothes is funny; but it was not funny on that day. Tiny little Laxa’s three kids were about eleven hours shy of being summer solstice babies. That would have been nice. But they were safe, and beautiful, and brand new in the world.

June 2oth today, and a rare year when the solstice occurs on the 20th rather than the 21st. Today, dead, or alive somewhere being kept from me, Aram, Abel and their sister are solstice babies. My suspicion — and I have some very cogent reasons for having it — is that a certain woman in this town caught the four cats from out of the smarmy, unholy priest’s garage and took them to a vet pal of hers in Vermont. And if so, did this vet give them the lethal injection, or adopt them out to people? The sealed, cruel lips of turners trolls, as I’ve said and will continue to say, are still immorally sealed. On this the twelfth birthday of three of my nine stolen cats, I still cannot answer the question of what became of the three babies born under a ten-foot pile of laundry.

I can almost never dwell on thoughts of four of my cats living all alone in a stinking garage. No love, no family, no sense of home and of things being all right. Afraid of every person who opens that garage door and yells at them, or talks phony sweet to them. I can’t bear these thoughts anymore for today. It hurts like the end of the world.


read…    All my stars…  Mugsy’s book

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chani, two

June 20, 2012

Page Fifteen

I edited this cut badly. sorry. chani the vibrant-colored calico at age 7 and a half, shortly before she was stolen. today would be her twelfth birthday, and on a very unusual june 20 summer solstice.

Today I try to say whatever small things I can manage about my second cat called Chani. It’s so difficult to write about this pilfered family on any day, but especially on their birthdays.

Chani was another one of those extremely shy cats, and as is my wont, I mostly let her be the way she was made. She was much more a cat-cat than a people-cat, and so I rarely tried to force physical affection between us. She had had a great bond with her mother, Laxa, but after Laxa’s death by the driver of a car when Chani was three, there was a time of lost-ness for her. Eventually she intensified her bonds with her two brothers, Aram and Abel, and filled the space left when her mother was suddenly gone.

About once a week she would have a great desire for me, come to me and walk all over my chest, rubbing and purring and asking for petting, sometimes sleeping on my chest a little while. But otherwise she kept her bonds to her two brothers as the primary ones in her life. On the day she was stolen she hadn’t yet had her eighth birthday.

Like her brothers, Chani was abjectly terrified of the outdoors. Was this because they were never introduced to the outdoors until they were three years old? Their mother certainly had had no such terror. Because I hadn’t yet had her spayed, Chani’s forays into the outdoors had to be brief anyway, so she wouldn’t wander off looking for men. But I needn’t have monitored her at all. After a mere five-to-ten minutes outside, Chani would be clawing at the door, climbing up it, and crying as if she were being flayed alive. What the hell are you doing this to me for, mom? I was doing it to give her, however briefly, the joy of nature, which I strongly believe cats need. To an even greater degree than dogs do. But not Chani. Nature held not one measly iota of interest for her. After about a year of these periodic forays, I gave up. Chani wanted the inside, and that was that.

Letting cat-cats live according to their own lights cost me something, of course. After they died, or after they were stolen, I craved another chance for more physical contact than I had got. I wished/wish I had tried to force it more. But forcing animals, unless they are in danger, is not my way. The cat I now have is another aloof one. She rarely sleeps with me, and I make no attempts to force her. I will regret it someday, I’m sure, as I regret it with Chani and some others. But my innate conviction to let animals be who they are with interference only when necessary does not leave me over the long years.

On eviction night, it was decided by a certain Turners lunatic and her smarmy, lying, sneaking priest that my animals should be kept overnight in one of the smarm’s two garages, till the animal officer could come for them in the morning. It was also decided by them where I myself should be kept overnight: in a hotel in Greenfield, far from my animals. Though I asked permission to feed my animals their supper, I was not allowed. The lunatic and her equally loopy son would do that.

Because they were both loons, and because they had no experience with animals, the feeding took from eight o’clock till midnight (I was told the next day), and five of my animals were allowed to escape. One dog off running loose in Turners all night and all the next day, and maybe more. Chailin and Chani and her two brothers escaped into the other garage, which was packed to the rafters with crap for a yard sale. The four cats were uncatchable in all that junk. Our eviction was in mid-March. A full two months later, I was told that the cats were still in that garage. No heat, no love (was there even a litter box?), nothing at all that was known and comfortable and normal. I can still hardly withstand thinking about it.

There are people in this poisonous town who finally got those cats out and took them somewhere and had them euthanized. They will not tell me. My need to know where my loved friends were taken, and where and when and how they died, is absolutely irrelevant to these sick-minded “christians.” They keep their secrets locked up tight from me as effectively as any mafioso keeps his secrets. I wish them misery every single day that I breathe, and if you find that sentiment repugnant, then you should not read this book. Those who do evil, to me or to someone else, are held accountable in my heart and in my mind.

Are you dead or alive today Chani, on your birthday, on the soltice? Were you taken to that vet in Vermont to be adopted out, or to be killed? The guilty will not tell me.


read…   Cutting the pie…    Shadowpoems

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bullying is for real

April 3, 2012

Page Fourteen

Those of you who do not have Asperger’s will no doubt not believe it when I say, yet again, that many people with this form of autism experience bullying all of their lives. This harassment may be physical, or mental, or both. Mine has largely been mental, has been lifelong, and has been administered by a wide variety and large number of my so-called fellow humans. In 2008, this bullying, in its most extreme form to date, resulted in the destruction of my life as I knew it and of the animals about whom I’m writing this book.

I’m not a likable person. The longer I live, the more concretely this is proven to me. This state of unlikability results in acute isolation and loneliness among my own species. That is certainly bad enough, enough to suffer as a result of being universally unlikable. But some bullies are not content to just dislike me and walk away, leaving me in the isolation and lonelines, which is a cruel enough thing to do in the first place, in my own opinion. Some bullies have to attack, and will not be sated until they have seen their attack bear destructive fruit.

It is because the landlady had to attack that this book even needs to be written. The landlady who herself is delusional and suffers from multiple personalities, a psyche that is not all of a piece. It is because the other tenant in the building — very obviously mafia-connected (she made no attempts to hide it) and dealing drugs in the back yard — had to attack. It is because a case manager at the department of mental health had to attack. Her particular attack was directed against me, but in her rationalization and making excuses for her dishonorable behavior she convinces herself that she acted for my animals. She made the usual yuppie judgment that someone poor like me shouldn’t have more than two animals anyway, and that my animals would be better off dead or with strangers than that we should be kept together as a family. This employee of the mental health system didn’t give a tinker’s damn about my mental health, or even about the hearts and souls of my animals.

In the wake of this worst trauma of my life (and my animals’ lives) I carry with me enormous grief, bitterness, and rage: a list of emotions the airy-fluffies of the modern era neither want to admit to nor discuss. But I also carry huge self-recrimination. After all, on one level the whole thing was my fault. It was because I was despised that this trio of mythological raging, demented furies did what they did. Just because I was being my autistic, atheistic, PTSD, anxiety and depression self that these horrors were thrown at us. Just for being me, Anne. And because I obstinately (to other people) insisted on the right to be myself, my animals and I had to be destroyed by the bullying impulses of three women whose psyches are nothing but sewage. The weight of darkness that exists to realize that if I weren’t me, if I were mainstream and one of society’s fitting-in sheep, these ugly things never would have been done to us, is a weight so heavy that I often wish I would just die under it and be finished.

I feel the remorse every single day of the last four years. Right along with the grief and the rage and the bitterness.


read…  Spite and malice…   Poison and snowflake trees

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March 30, 2012

Page Thirteen                (from the 2008 blogs)

Fourteen weeks homeless, lifeless, loveless today. Three months tomorrow. 

My lovebird Tuuschi. I’ve talked about him before. Born October 1994, 13 and a half years old when he was stolen from me on March 12. He was one of a family of six: his parents Toby and Tessie, his two older sisters Tari and Tiki, and his sister and mate, Tammi. All these trochaic names. But ever since I read long ago that animals like and respond better to trochaic names, I’ve almost always used them. Anyway, Tuuschi was the last of his family still alive, and had lived longer than any of the others. Born crippled, his way was never an easy one, and yet I took years of pleasure in his almost unceasing happiness. He didn’t seem to be the least bit disturbed by being crippled, by the fact that he had a disability and couldn’t do simple things in the same easy way that other birds could. Well, he didn’t know it, did he, that other birds’ legs were formed normally and that for them, every movement was easy. He had to devise alternate ways to do these same simple things. He would hang upside-down from the top of his cage with his less-crippled leg, and he thought that was a great trick. So did I. His whole family had hung upside-down, but most of them could use two legs to do it, and Tuuschi and his dad were the ones who did it the most and loved it the most. Lovebirds are by nature somehow more bubbly than most other birds. Something about the shape of their beaks and the light in their eyes makes them look like they’re always smiling, even in the moment of death. But Tuuschi was bubblier and happier even than most lovebirds, and a great, great treasure, as all purity is.

He loved his Tammi, until the day she died. His need and desire to bond was so great, that even after twelve years with Tammi, he was willing to make a new bond. Not all birds will. Some birds just fade away after a long-term bond ends. Things were very bad with the landlady and the crime-chick at the time that Tammi died, and I didn’t want to get another lovebird, a new animal to come to the garbage and uncertainty my poor animals and I were trying to get by in. Enter the parakeet, whom we already had. I put their cages side-by-side, very close, and eventually the friendship was formed. To a much greater degree than I’d dared to  hope for. They took a great delight in each other.

I’ve written on another blog about Tuuschi’s love of bells, so won’t do that again here. Of all the memories of my stolen Tuuschi that stir the pain, the grief, the anger, it is often remembering him with bells that evoke these emotions most forcefully.

Update 24 June 2009: I imagine Tuuschi has been dead for some while, he was so old. The last of his family, and I was not with him when he died, and I don’t know the date or the place of his death. Supposedly he was adopted by someone in that damned Polish church in Turners Falls, and I’ve never been allowed to know who, and I was never allowed to visit him, because these turnersites exhibit so much goddamned christian kindness. I was supposed to see him, to see all of them to the end of their lives. That was my duty as their friend, their human mother; a duty I loved and wanted to fulfill.


read…    All my stars…  Mugsy’s book

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you are what you do

March 28, 2012

Page Twelve

The fourth anniversary of the killing of Shiloh and her two cousins has just come and gone again, two days ago. The anniversary of the illegal eviction was two weeks ago. I used to like March. The earliest beginnings of spring, St. Patrick’s Day, the rills and eddies of snowmelt. Now March is the blackest, heaviest, most sick-making month on the calendar. So it will remain.

It was really a masterpiece of behind-the-back machination by the people at the animal “shelter” and my case manager at the Department of Mental Health (I call her Shirley Temple) that brought about the murder of these three cats. One day after the eviction, Shirley says to me on the phone: “You need to sign a paper so the shelter can euthanize the cats” (she knew that the e-word would fry me, and she used it deliberately. but I figured that all out later). I objected to signing such a paper, to which she says: “Oh, sorry I said euthanize. I meant that you had to sign the paper so they can care for the cats.” I decided I wasn’t going to sign any papers at all. This was on March 12.

On March 19 I have a phone message from the viper at the animal “shelter” saying that she needs to talk to me “about some of the kitties” (babytalk makes murder nicer, doesn’t it). I didn’t think of death when I heard that message, but I realized later that I should have. I thought adoption, that they wanted to give my cats to other people. I didn’t return the call, but I did early the next morning mail her a letter from me regarding my animals, a letter from my doctor stating that I had service animals, and a letter from a former therapist outlining my psychological need for the animals. All of these arrived at the “shelter” on Friday morning the 21st of March.

The next message I get from the cat-woman is on Tuesday the 25th, saying it’s important. I call her back. “Sorry to have to tell you this over the phone,” says the scheming yuppie, “but we euthanized three of your cats yesterday.” During the rest of the conversation, I say that I signed no paper allowing such killings. She replies that in Massachusetts if the owner isn’t heard from within ten days, the animals can be killed without the owner’s permission. I say: “But you did hear from me. I sent three letters that arrived Friday.” “Oh yeah there were some letters,” she says vaguely. I interrupt her. I ask her, “So you heard from me. Why did you kill my cats?”

She gave some vague, airy, airhead answer that I’ve forgotten, because it was during that conversation that the epiphany, the light bulb in the mind, was happening within me. Shirley Temple and this “shelter” creature had known all along about the ten-day thing, and had contrived to do their level best to frighten me (and they succeeded), keep me away from the “shelter,” and thus leave themselves the freedom for killing.

I found out that a “vet” had recommended these cats be killed. Which vet? The airhead would not give me the name. “Why, exactly, were they killed?” Here are her intelligent answers: “Well we thought the grey and white one (Shiloh) might have diabetes, and the black one (Ziidjian) is too old to get neutered now because he has a chronic upper resperatory thing (which he had had and survived and lived fine with for years), and the black and white one (Chan) wasn’t very friendly.” He was perfectly friendly to me for all of his twelve years.

And so they were killed. Chan and Ziidjian were brothers, and Shiloh was their first cousin. Killed by illegal eviction, by clandestine planning on the part of the DMH and the “shelter” yuppies. Killed by human malice aforethought.

May the ocean’s dogs devour them.


read…   Scealta liatha…    Shadowpoems


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March 27, 2012

Page Eleven      (from the 2008 blogs)

still sat 7 june 2008   greenfield

Shiloh was one of the three cats slaughtered by the  local “shelter,” along with her two cousins. She was born Aug 7, 1992, the last of a litter of six. And yet again I saw the “runt of the litter” predictions come true. She remained her whole life not just the smallest member of her litter, but of her entire extended family. She was the size that most kittens are when they’re maybe eight or nine months old, for over fifteen years. And so no matter how old she got, part of me always thought of her as very young. At least until about 2006, when she was fourteen. Finally I could see signs of aging in her that had really been a long time coming. She stayed so much the same for so many years. She was gentle, and funny. And also sutbborn about certain things, like many animals. She was a people-sleeper. Not all cats are. Her father wasn’t. She had her family’s greater-than-average curiosity about the world, and she had her grandmother’s intense love for home and humans. In the 90′s, Shiloh was one of the cats who used to walk the canal with me in turners falls, that town of trolls, trauma and toxicity. They have these cement pillar-type things along the canal (I don’t know what they’re called) and there was one particular one Shiloh            always had to jump onto and roll around on. They’re not very big on the top, and I don’t know how many times I had to catch her in her roll so she wouldn’t fall into the water. I named that pillar Shiloh’s Lookout. We moved away from the canal in 97,when the hell years began, but whenever I make it back there, Shiloh’s Lookout is always one of the stops I make. I haven’t been back there yet since she was killed. 

There was another trait that her particular family had in abundance, and that was the love of running water. Most of my cats over my lifetime didn’t give a hoot whether they ever sat on a sink and watched water run from a tap, or hung out with me in flowerbeds to watch water pouring from the watering can. But all of Shiloh’s family were very keen on watching running water, as long it was a modest amount. If the flow got stronger, then the normal feline dislike of water would kick in.

When Shiloh’s dad was eight, he began demanding his drinking water from a tap about forty percent of the time. When he was thirteen, he began making this demand almost one hundred percent. Shiloh did the same thing. For the time that her father still lived, she allowed him to have the bathroom sink as his drinking property, but as soon as he died, she claimed tap-drinking at the sink for herself. She was thirteen, the same age he had been when he went completely to tap-drinking. She continued to drink her water only from the bathroom tap until the day two and half years later when a parcel of scheming, deceitful humans took her away.

Update 20 June 2009:  Shiloh and her two male cousins were murdered by this wonderful animal “shelter” on March 24, 2008, only two weeks into their “foster” care. I think of the ending they had with shame and rage: two weeks of stress, living in cages, being handled by strangers who didn’t love them, then death. And I wasn’t even with them when they died. If we had stayed together, Shiloh probably would have died sometime last year anyway. She was nearly 16. But she would have lived her last days with her family, in love, and I would have been with her when she died. Her two cousins were only 12, and would still be alive if we had stayed together. All three of these cats had been with me and with each other since they were born. I think of everyone who had anything to with what happened to my family with dark contempt: the landlady, the psycho-chick, the DMH and CSS, the “shelter.” That building is empty now, the one where my three cats were murdered — the “shelter” has moved to a new location. I sometimes ride by that place on the bus, the now-vacant one, the place where three cousins who loved me, and whom I loved, were sentenced to death. There’s only darkness there on that little hill, only darkness in those people who worked there, only darkness in me, when my eyes look up to tha building. Yet another example of how the Department of Mental Health “assisted” me. 

Since I first wrote this post, I have been back to the canal and Shiloh’s Lookout a number of times, including this past Memorial day. So many emotions trapped inside me when I visit: the humor and the happiness of those lost days on the canal with my cats; the sorrow; the contempt for the humans who destroyed my life and for those who destroyed my animals.

And today, 20 June 2009, is the ninth birthday of three more of the stolen cats: Aram, Abel and Chani. Or it would have been their ninth birthday. I have reason to deduce that these three cats living in a garage full of yard sale crap that belongs to an extrememly unethical priest, were rounded up in cat traps by a certain woman in this town and taken to a vet friend of hers in Vermont to be killed. But when this was done, no one will tell me. They won’t even verify that it was done.


read… Being toward death…   Spite and malice

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