Under the Stars

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“She says nothing at all, but simply stares upward into the dark sky and watches, with sad eyes, the slow dance of the infinite stars.”  ~ Neil Gaiman, Stardust

It is nearly 5 AM and I’ve yet to write a word until now. Excuse me while I step outside. There’s a good show going on out there. We often call it stars, but what gets to me is what is between and behind the stars. That’s the good stuff. Like I said, I’m going outside, be right back.

It’s below freezing, your nitwit scribe has been outside, barefoot, in his rich gray fleece bathrobe, and, yes, the stars are there, as is the space between them. The scribe is me, and I was just looking in the mirror, right before I stepped outside, and I noticed that the pentacle and my mom’s garnet and gold ring still dangle on a chain around my neck. Having a chain around my neck sounds like an analogy for a working man, but I don’t want to go there today. Today is Halloween, or Samhain. The latter term is the former reality. Samhain has been around for a long, long time. Halloween – not so much. You could call it All Hallows Eve, and that would also be correct. Then again tomorrow will be All Saints Day. All Saints? Really? Bring it on. We could use that kind of help. Let’s start with Saint Francis of Assisi, k?

Our opening photo for today’s post, here at EyeYotee, is of some more shelter cats. That’s Kanga on the left, Castiel in the center, and Prince Harry on the right. I, instead of doing the obvious photoshop sort of thing, left Prince Harry in there because I want to advocate for him, since he has the longest record as a resident in our shelter. That’s why the photo is out of balance. Prince Harry needs a new home. Perhaps yours? We caregivers at Stray Hearts animal shelter, in Taos New Mexico, are in the business of providing the animals with the best care possible so that they can be most ready to “go home” when adoption time comes. Our wages are low. That’s because the shelter is a non-profit and funds are low. The funds could be higher, and we hope that they will be so in the future, but that just ain’t the case these days. What I am getting to is that it is all about the animals. We are there for the animals. Does that make sense to you? Or do you subscribe to the stories about what a wicked place it is in which we work? Stories of wickedness tend to detract from donations rather than encourage them. What’s the sense in that? It ain’t been easy, folks, because as these stories of wickedness swirled throughout this small town the pressure laid upon the shelter crew has pretty much been, at best, an unnecessary  burden, which was passed on through to the animals, and these animals have no forum as far as any WTF issues they might have. The crew has a few WTF issues as well, but the issues usually remain around and at the break table as the crew goes back to work. Wait a minute now. My bad. The crew must carry these issues as they tend to the animals. There’s no way around it. As a crew member I must note that what goes around comes around, so if stories of wickedness go around it inevitably comes around to us. And to the animals who are like all dude where’s my kibble and why haven’t you changed my linens yet?

Let me tell you about the morning I came to work and saw a dead automobile in the parking lot.  When I got there several employee’s cars were parked outside the gate, which had not been unlocked and opened because there was some of that police crime scene tape draped all over it; yellow ribbon to warn us that something wicked had occurred. I looked over the fence and saw the burnt out car. Let’s call it nausea. I went almost dizzy in considering what had happened and all of the implications attached. Somebody had the good sense to call the police. An officer soon came to examine the scene before removing enough yellow ribbon to allow us through so that we could get to work. My car had been broken down, and it had been parked next to the vehicle that was now in ashes. I’d had it towed and repaired just the day before. If it had still been parked it would have probably been burnt as well. Lucky me. My car was okay. That aside, we went to work that day and gave the animals the best care we could provide. But, let me tell you, when you have started the day with a sight like that, and with having to call the police to let you in to work, it kind of fries your mind a bit. Listen, the animals feel the residue of that kind of stress. How could they not?

Yesterday a fellow worker and I were sitting at the break table, waiting for 5 PM to clock out for the day, when two of the board members, who oversee the shelter activity, arrived and came over to us. They assured us that better days were coming, and hopefully soon. They also thanked us for our good work. They suggested that we were heroes. They gave us food for thought. They made us feel better after several months of living under the gun. That’s important. Because it’s all about the animals. Human politics should not eclipse this reality. Not now, not ever. I work with the cats, and I love being serenaded all day long by their precious voices. To have those little voices overwhelmed by the shouts of outraged humans just boggles my mind. I’m tired of it.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

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Whimsy Day

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Short and sweet. Let’s make it a whimsical day. It will be for me, and you certainly have the potential as well. My alarm went off this morning as I was hugging Julia Roberts in a dream, and she was going to take me somewhere. Hmmm, maybe she was taking me to the waking world. Yeah, I’ll run with that. Sweet.

Above you see the formidable Petra. She’s an older cat who really needs to go home with somebody. Long gray fur, sweet disposition, but she sleeps a lot. I think it’s kennel depression. It happens.

Wish me luck with my whimsy. I have a target in sight but anything will do, except maybe said target might . . .ummm, never mind. Wait a minute. I do mind. It feels lovely minding this way.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously, k?

Midnight Speaks

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Here’s your Halloween photo right here, k? Don’t ask me for another one, because I am a pagan and I . . . that thought didn’t go anywhere. My bad. Even pagans dress up for Halloween. What the heck is wrong with me? Last time I dressed up for Halloween I was a guy with a chip on his shoulder. Really. I got a lot of good laughs but some folks didn’t think it was funny at all, in fact they were somewhat uncomfortable about it. The wood chip was held on by a safety pin. That kept me safe. I hope it lasts, it’s been a few years.

The fine fellow in the photo is Midnight, an American medium-hair feline. He’s big! He’s got the shelter thing all down and stuff. Don’t fault him for that. It’s a reality that he has to deal with. That’s what we’ve got to do, global warming and modern lynching and all that. Midnight (I did not make that name up) has it figured out. He finds a high shelf and then strikes a pose, or he waits at the door of the pen and makes it clear that he really really wants out. Who can blame him. But . . . he also likes to hang out in the play room, where we put cats to give them some time to run and tumble and roam and growl and hiss and lounge and, and, and . . .I do like to ramble on. But . . . Midnight goes out with the teenagers: Jordy, Tango, and Tom Cat, and sometimes Cyrus. Not everybody can do that, because judgement leaps out. Not the best of situations. That’s why cats have discernment instead. It narrows down the field. Says me.

You know what?I got another insulting reply on this blog, after I said that I would not tolerate such acceptable expression. I said I would not, then I fudged on that, then I changed my mind and went with my first inclination – I friggin trashed the post. And – oh. wait – I have to point out that I might be wrong on the animal shelter controversy. What if I am? A fool be I. A pile of matter, often, among scientists, known as – oh never mind. How did it come to that? I took the minority stance, which opened me to the majority prance. So if I was wrong I am screwed. My bad. Boy howdy I wish I’d been more – ummm – prudent – ummm – intelligent – ummm – what the heck is wrong with me? You detractors can just go ahead and detract as you will. I’m out of words here, in this blog and in my whole life. No friggin deal at all. It happens to the best of us, at which point we are no longer the best. I bow, you win. Meanwhile I will stay home, because boldness – because righteousness – because friggin victory – because my ignorance – because I chose the wrong side – and I really don’t like going into town anyway, and or unless I have to go to work. I work with animals. I work in a place where I might – oh, never mind. My voice is, ummm, useless. Rational workings have won the day. Leave me that, my misconception. Midnight is not your cup of tea. Says me.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously, y’all. Please, k?

Addendum: It turns out that my tone of civil sarcasm, in today’s post, has been, perhaps, misinterpreted by some. Sometimes writing can be like driving on black ice in December. I actually wanted to gradually back away from the Stray Hearts shelter tragedy, but I know that it is not over, I know that through a Facebook post which  said that with the vet down and gone it is time to go after (two) others. That smacks of vendetta. I don’t need to prove that it was vendetta, I can just go to the State Board of Vendetta and get them to support me. I think the Governor has a strong say on that Board, so it may be tough going. What really and still riles me is the media coverage of this case, last week, in the Taos News, on Taos Friction, on the local broadcasts from Albuquerque, and on the grapevine. They said that Dr. Aversa HURT animals. I read through the report from the State Veterinary Board’s ruling – as reported here already – and I restricted my commentary to cases cited with which I was actually familiar. Of them I found that all were either misrepresented or simply fabricated. Yeah, maybe I am mistaken as well. I don’t think so. I think the politics of this tsunami of an issue is much broader than is admitted. And I think that at least some of it smells of middle school politics. Read The Crucible twice and call me in the morning. People reported that the doc hurt animals. Of the ones (animals) with which I am familiar, all are well, as a result of the healing provided by the treatment, assisted by caregiving applied by non-aligned personnel, and all are living happy lives. I thought healing was the goal. But most of this addendum is reiteration. I pussyfooted  (doh!) around directed intent because I saw a burnt up car. That was friggin stupid of me, I admit. I don’t know why I did that. There was no publicly disclosed proof that the arson was related to the scandal. My bad. And I must in closing admit that I never thought I’d see the day when ‘I heard it on TV so it must be true’ would jump out of ironic sarcasm and into the actual world. Too late. Hope no animals were watching. That’s gotta hurt.

Jordy Speaks

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Jordy speaks. I have no idea what he is saying, but he is one of the best cats in the cattery. Check him out.

This morning I have barely any idea what I am thinking. Such is one of the sometimes features of a down cycle. That and I don’t want to leave the house. Maybe it will fade as the day goes by? That would be nice. Sometimes it does fade. But this one is deep. C’est la vie, non? I’d best post this and move along, before this blog becomes more of a confessional than it already is. Not that there is anything wrong with that. There’s not. On a day like today I can find something wrong with most anything. Imagine that. Maybe it won’t become a confessional after all. Whatever. I do deeply hope that I have more to say soon. Honestly, the emotional stuff stemming from the shelter scandal of a few weeks ago has caught up with me. I hope that them folks who puffed up a balloon full of evidence realize someday that their little actions became way big, but that doesn’t mean that veracity was on their side (and maybe it was?). Not actually. It was something else.

Meow. That’s what Jordy was saying! Yup. I love that cat.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

Comfortably Mundane

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The lovely Calliope graces our opening photo. She’s a sweetie who surprised me. As a young mother, hardly more than a kitten herself, she was small and somewhat scrawny, but she is no longer that. She’s filled out and grown some more. Lucky is the person who takes her home. Check her out.

As for me it has so far been a battle this morning. My body wants more sleep yet I got 7-8 hours last night. Go figure. I’ve just watched videos of both George Carlin and Lewis Black. I need comedy today. I am out of coffee this morning. That alone is funny. Other than that I am feeling comfortably mundane. I don’t always have to be fantastic. Today is one of those days.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

The Injustice of Defeat

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“The injustice of defeat lies in the fact that its most innocent victims are made to look like heartless accomplices. It is impossible to see behind defeat, the sacrifices, the austere performance of duty, the self-discipline and the vigilance that are there — those things the god of battle does not take account of.” ~ Antoine de Saint-Exupery

Now. Back against cold stucco, I witness the rugged music of what sounds like a big dog barking low, while curious about what the dog is on about I am also watching the unmoving stars, a kind of stability I could use right now. It’s not just the exhaustion from an emotional week, I also made a bad mistake yesterday, I accidentally took two doses of my psych meds, which made for a rough day, which I spent in the chair, afraid to fall asleep. I made it through and the effects wore off by 3 PM. Woof. About 4 PM I took the car out for a short drive, to reorient myself to the “real” world, to get grounded again, because I was well over my hermit quota. Was I scared? Yeah, for about the first hour, then I noticed that the psychotropic effects from the drugs were really kind of pleasant. It’s not the type of high I want to go through again, and I missed a day’s work, which pisses me off, since the company of being with 50+ cats is really a big part of my therapy for depression, PTSD, probable brain damage, and anxiety. I’m a mess, admittedly. It’s small comfort I find in the statistics showing that a friggin lot of people suffer from depression. Give us a hand, my friends. We are the silent fighters, who sometimes rise to rally agains the purely false impression that depression is sadness or grief, or weakness, or some sort of failure to suck it up. It is not “all in the head”. If you think it is all in the head then you are only in my mind, because I ain’t letting you into my meatspace until you get your facts straight, bubba. I mean, didn’t you know that making shit up then calling it facts makes you ordinary, not special? And I also mean that even in dreams artificial presentations pretty much frack up the works. It affects everybody when things ain’t quite right in Mudville. When Mighty Casey strikes out we all lose. Of course you could call it all karma or past-life justice, but, once again, I ain’t letting you near me, k?

As per usual the coffee tastes good. It was the last of my splurge via quality coffee, but my bank account slash budget says I can get quality coffee again. That usually doesn’t happen. Usually I must go with the analogy: PBR instead of Sam Adams. Hey, did you know that Paul Revere did not complete his famous ride, he did not end up ratting on the Brits. Instead he got so drunk due to stopping by all of the taverns in the name of spreading the news that he fell off his horse. It was Sam Adams who jumped into the saddle and completed the ride, finally lighting the lights in the belfry of the Old North Church. My 7th grade history teacher told me that, Mr. What’shisname,  who had a passion for setting the record straight, history-wise. Bless his heart. George Washington never cut down the cherry tree, k?

“Night rider, night rider
You may think that it’s the breeze
Whispering through the lonely trees
But it’s only him a’flying round the bend
As the day comes to that end” George Thorogood

Now. I’ve pretty much said all I have to say. But . . . regular readers will know that I have been taking to the defense of our former veterinarian at the animal shelter where I work. It’s been a nightmare to do so. When people hear “animal abuse” they get all up in arms and stuff. I still contend that the facts used against him were in part inaccurate, and in some cases even nonsensical. Maybe a big part. It’s what you call an opinion, based on my working at the friggin guy’s side for months. Politics is what I see, but that’s just me.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

 

Sick Day Before Sleep

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I feel like . . . I called in sick today. I can’t work because I am wrung out like a . . . I’m just waiting for the double dose of my morning meds, gabapentin, to kick in and kick me into dreamland, where I belong right now. When I am sick, and all of my systems are either shutting down or reduced to rudimentary, the last thing to go is my writing. Thought I’d write for a while before the meds kick in. Dang, I just repeated myself. On purpose, mind you. I’m allowed, via prescription, to adjust my dosage of meds to help me deal effectively with my fucked up voyage called life. Grateful I am.

Last night I deleted numerous replies to my various posts here at EyeYote, and I deleted yesterday’s post as well, the reason being that one situation which entailed me being a proponent and ally to a seriously beleaguered friend has put me in the line of fire from some ginormous guns that I am unwilling to face. The replies that I deleted, one and all, all of them, whatever, were deleted for two reasons. One, because they all entailed insults toward myself. Two, because I need to keep this blog clean, to allow . . . the meds are kicking in. I am getting very groggy and sleep shall follow shortly. Tomorrow I can return to work. Today? I’m stressed beyond the point of tears, to the point where the courage of my convictions has laid me flat. And I have minor chest pains. Poor me. That’s why I called in sick. I’m of no use to anyone today, yet this afternoon I really need to go deposit the check I have in my wallet into my tiny bank account. Maybe after a hefty nap.

A reminder, then I must really lay down and sleep: all replies that bear deletion will be deleted. It is nothing personal, unlike the content of those I have already deleted. Maybe I had it coming, but now I am seeing to it moving along. I’m afraid of those big gun media giants, and of two pesky women who have never posted replies on this blog. Bueno bye.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

Confabulation 101

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“This world is but a canvas for our imagination.” ~ Henry David Thoreau

“The syntactical nature of reality, the real secret of magic, is that the world is made of words. And if you know the words that the world is made of, you can make of it whatever you wish.” ~ Terence McKenna

“Bullwinkle, you weigh 400 imaginary pounds.” ~ Rocket J. Squirrel

I was awakened at 3 AM. My regular readers here at EyeYotee will likely know already that my waking at 3 AM is not exactly uncommon. Today’s crux of an issue is that the cat is the most frequent culprit in waking me up, but she’s not here; I’m house-sitting. No, this morning it was the rain that did it. I wasn’t aware that my cat has such powerful connections. Live and learn.

The previous nonsense still reminds us of the Web of Life, the vast matrix of interconnectedness, wherein an animal does indeed have connections, within the vast array, and in being as such the animal gets blamed for a lot of stuff. My cat, Rosie, is off the hook because she’s not here. I can’t exactly say that she’s at home either because I’m not there. My cat is Schrödinger’s cat. Boy howdy them cats sure do love boxes! It seems it that it was so back in Schrödinger’s time as well.

Hey, have a look at this next photo. Our opening photo was taken in the dunes along Pensacola Beach, in Navarre Beach. The wind was pushing full gale force and a fog lay thick upon the barrier island. As I sat there among the dunes I felt closer to life than I ever had before. I think we get removed from the physical world through any number of the trappings that go along with our modern lives. That day at the dunes, the fog, the howling surf, it all cradled me back into a knowing that I so often take for granted. That’s just plain stupid. Anyway – about the photo – it looks very much like the waves on that day.  But it’s not. Not even close. It shows the Southern Rocky Mountains during a winter storm. As said before: I am a big fan of ambiguity. Ambiguity brings disparate images together in a conference call.

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Cool, huh.

Gray morning, just past the lavender hour, when twilight takes on a creative hue, waking consciousness itself takes on shades of ambiguity. I just looked back and read yesterday’s post. The situation revealed in part in the post is clearly still a tad volatile. There were two replies after the post. The first reply is the one that touches me most. Says she, “How can anyone use so many words to say absolutely nothing? I suppose you really enjoy the sound of your own voice or reading your own nonsense.” I actually get a feeling of affection from reading that. Seriously and sincerely I do. It makes me feel 14 again, and someone who cares points out some potential problems that may interfere with personal growth. At 14 you have nearly ten more years until your brain develops fully. Really. But at 60? I’ll get back to y’all on that. Just remember that 60 is the new 12. Six long decades and I still stubbornly maintain the right to break rank when needed. My bad. Thanks for the tips, lady. May we all continue to grow beyond expectations. Dude that would be like all sweet and everything.

The sun is reworking the clouds and the wet sage fields do their best impression of fresh mint. I’ve got a CD playing on the Bose, a CD given to me as a gift from our beleaguered ex-vet: Yes, Gates of Delirium. I can rightly reckon that the title plays harmonics with my mood for the day. I’m exhausted to the point of tears. And then there’s all the neurological tomfoolery that flashes bounding waves of anxiety throughout my body. Poor me. And what about the sadness? Things change. Life goes on. One would be a fool to ignore or push down sadness. Do so at your own peril, me hearties. Sadness, along with most emotions, provides a transceiver with which to receive incoming vibes and harness them into recognizable communications. Sadness and fear, for example, are not signs of weakness. That kind of thinking will get you a nitwit merit badge. Whatever can strengthen perception can also accelerate growth. For some friggin strange reason this all makes me think of a beautiful ginger tabby cat named Lion. I just reread the stanza on Lion, included in the overall ruling from the Veterinarian board. I’ve got a portion of the ruling, in pdf form. Thanks, Jane. The descriptions in this stanza are professionally explicit. I’ll not post them here, citing privacy as my intent. I know it is a public document, but my intentions are not for the public to tinker with. Don’t even try it, k? Just don’t. I remember Lion, laying in his cage, swatting at us playfully with his injured paw. I wondered often why this spunky usage of his severely damaged paw didn’t reveal the pain he was in. He was playful. That’s what I’m sayin’. What really scares me is that the ruling stated that Lion went for six weeks without a bandage, a big blue cast of a bandage that simply wasn’t there. I don’t remember that, maybe because I was rooting for his healing and that healing was plain to see. Standards be damned that cat came back in a big way, took it all like the champion he will always remain for me. Dude rocks. As for the scary part, that would be the obvious confabulation I so self-blatently set in place as a cover memory of what really happened. I truly wish I could remember it the real way. I could blame it on the bipolar disorder that rides shotgun with me as I merrily roll along through life. I have at times felt terror when it seemed that my perceptions were all wrong. Each and every one of them. At those times of terror I completely forget that people don’t often talk straight, they talk around corners, they replace claims and offerings to facilitate quiet goals, so when it comes to relying on others to give you a foot up in sharpening perception alls you get is a muddled amalgamation of syntactical leftovers hash. Yum. That said, I think I’ll maintain the image of Lion with his big blue cast of a bandage that I called a paddle. He’d even bat a ping pong ball around his cage using the paddle. Confabulations are often innocent and benign when shared with other people. I’d like to say that mine is too. But I offer that my confabulation is in many ways, on spiritual and philosophical levels, a much truer version than that offered in the document. The review panel was there to punish in the long run, and they were dazzled by some 20 people who obviously knew what they were talking about, regardless of the accuracy of what they were talking about; some of it was good. That is why I choose to retain confabulation over real memories. The goal is healing, the goal is the striving for quality of life, and the goal is to spread happiness each and every time y’all get the chance. Lion healed. Lion went to a good home, where he is the bright light of someone’s life. Give me that any day! Damn it, I will remember it any damn way I please, which is not uncommon. Lion was also a light in my life. As was Doc. Dude rocks.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously, k?

 

For All of You Crazy Diamonds Out There

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“No one is ever more him/herself than when they really laugh. Their defenses are down. It’s very Zen-like, that moment. They are completely open, completely themselves when that message hits the brain and the laugh begins. That’s when new ideas can be implanted. If a new idea slips in at that moment, it has a chance to grow.” ~ George Carlin

Don’t you just love a surreal path. That’s me today. I know exactly the moment it kicked in, this merging of the Dreamtime with mundane reality, but I’ll get to that later. The morning feels sweet. I relish these times, when sweetness disregards the perfusion of evidence, and snuggles with the moment, like a cat under the blankets, like a dream under the light of the moon. We all do that at times. You do, don’t you? If not I apologize. Sweetness, when timeless, is a smile on a dog, or a playful look on the cat’s face. I work within proximity of these animals. Lucky me.

The moment when I slipped into the Dreamtime is when I got news of our former veterinarian at the animal shelter, and how he was slapped on the hand with a brick of a ruling, a ruling by the State Veterinary board. The brick is metaphorical, of course. I have reported, here at EyeYotee, about the situation of which the issues regarding the vet are just one part. It was suggested that I need to apologize for standing up, for having the courage of my convictions, for for taking sides in a situation that never needed to be sullied by oppositional vectors. I’m not going to apologize just yet, or maybe never. The broken-hearted former employees, those who were terminated, or who departed employment through a decision of their own, they chose their path, whatever their personal motives were.  A broken heart is predominantly a spiritual thing, at least that’s how I see it. Personally I’d rather not turn back within the winds of change, looking back to shout at the pain. Were some of the detractors of the shelter whistle-blowers? Yeah, maybe. Did they do a noble thing through their actions regarding the issues. Yeah, I can see that but I’m not at all convinced. For example, I could have filed complaints against the supermarket I worked in for over ten years. I had documented compelling evidence that strongly suggested that I was conspired against, and rather than just terminating me in the first place some of them let the pain and anxiety continue. This is a morale issue. But I chose to not file a complaint. I’m not exactly sure of why I chose that path instead of going the hard-nosed way of a champion. Why did I do that? Some questions need never be answered, for they are road signs that evoke inner vision, they are mile markers that give rise to the vision of hope, and they are gnarly little rascals that can also cause one to question one’s self-confidence. It’s the old two-edged sword routine. Stand tall. That’s what I say. And embrace ambiguity if that’s what you need to do, k?

“To learn which questions are unanswerable, and not to answer them: this skill is most needful in times of stress and darkness.” ~ Ursula K. LeGuin

So – sans apologies I walk along on my own mist-filled path. I’ve witnessed the dark side of the situation, in the form of a burnt-out frame of an automobile, right there in the parking lot of the shelter. It was the damnedest thing! My personal WTF mode was commandeered by fear, and said fear made a connection between the heated arguments afoot in the world and the crispy car. It has been suggested that the arson had nothing to do with the matters at hand, but it did. Yes, it did. People experienced various levels of terror. Fingers need not be pointed when happenstance stands clearly before your eyes. I mean, who did such a thing, and why? It’s best that these, this, whatever, question not go all ambiguous and stuff. Don’tcha know, 200 animals were put in danger of death. Was the arson connected with the review board’s action against the vet? Fuck if I know. And I rarely use expletives in this blog. That alone says a lot, don’tcha know.

“You reached for the secret too soon, you cried for the moon
Shine on you crazy diamond
Threatened by shadows at night and exposed in the light
Shine on you crazy diamond” ~ Pink Floyd

Dude like yeah go on and shine. It won’t hurt ya none. But that’s not the point, now, is it? G’wan do it anyway.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

Regarding A Rare Thing

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Sunrise over Pueblo canyon – 10/20/2014

 

“And so I cry sometimes when I’m lying in bed
Just to get it all out, what’s in my head
And I, I am feeling a little peculiar
And so I wake in the morning and I step outside
And I take a deep breath and I get real high
And I scream from the top of my lungs,
What’s goin’ on?” ~ Four Non-blondes

 

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Rose the cat

Being in the presence of cats is an irreplaceable gift. If you don’t like cats, and you want them gone from your space, do so. You don’t know what you are missing. They are smart, and rife with perspicaciousness, almost as if they are the observers we all hope to be someday, yet we lose that chance if we place ourselves above them. A fool would do so to to his, hers, whatever, own detriment. Yes, I do it for a living. I care for cats. At the Stray Hearts animal shelter, here in Taos, NM, we have over 50 of them wily critters in the cattery alone. There are more in the intake/isolation area, but it’s the ones on public display that grab my admiration. The other day we sent a magnificent animal, named Tiger, to a new home. The shelter is home as well but we want them to go to a better home. When Tiger was placed in a kennel carrier and was on his way out the door my coworker and I cried. I rarely cry but this loss of the daily presence of a cat so fine as to be exemplary of his kind was a tough one. The tears were 33.3333% sadness and loss, and 66.6666% tears of joy. Jot that down then go see if you can do it. Tears of joy are the best. Cherish them, forever.

 

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Tiger feeds while Prince Harry plays the thief behind his back.

 

I’m in my sixth day of housesitting, in the house where I lived for seven years, before the bipolar disorder got the best of me and twisted it into failure. I’d love to move back here. I fucked up, so the likelihood of moving back is laughable at best, and I know this as well as I know the memory of pain from a cat bite delivered by way of a Russian blue named Tessie, yet I can now see my failure as a mistake. Everybody makes them. And then there are the relationship issue. The prospects ain’t lookin’ too good, like dude ya know better now but now ain’t then, k? Tessie’s bite punched her fangs down into the meat and nail of the tip of my right index finger, right down to the bone. The pain was far beyond any pain I have ever known. I never resented her violence. Such things happen in life and life is a miracle. Ain’t cats just the purrtiest things? Hi ho, on we go. Ouch.

So here I sit before the keyboard. I can see the mountains if I look up over the top edge of the iMac, through the picture window. And then there’s the dog. He is my dog as well as hers. Getting this danged canine to socialize with me was a great lesson in several virtues. Use ’em or ya lose ’em. That’s what I say. He was a shelter dog for no more than 48 hours. Before that he was the companion to an old lady. For many reasons he hated men, hated them with a passion, especially men in boots. Fear. PTSD. Friggin life! I get like that at times.

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Skydog contemplating existence.

At this point and place in time I will wrap up this post and do something else. An epsom salts bath sounds good. I’ve got me a day off from work. I’m both dreaming and observing so far this morning. I’m gonna call my friend today, the veterinarian who skeedaddled back down to Santa Fe after he was assaulted by some folks who seemed to feel really really bad about a whole lot of stuff. That they took it out on him really and still baffles me to this day. He ended up facing a State review panel. What was accomplish by that? Ready, aim, fire. The shelter cats and dogs took the hit alongside my friend. They faced it together, in the presence my friend. I once witnessed this man kiss a euthanized cat on the top of the head after he sent it to the Other Side due to a terminal illness. Such love is a rare thing. Those who assaulted him could have loaded their intentions with love for all concerned instead of getting loaded for bear and then letting loose the dogs of war. Don’tcha think?

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

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