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*sigh* Fuckin’ cats.

Posted by Anntichrist S Coulter on April 29, 2007 – 11:42 pm

1. No good deed goes unpunished.

2. First rule for new recruits (at least per the stories of every Army & Marine vet that I’ve ever known) : NEVER FUCKING VOLUNTEER.

On Thursday, the slutty Mama cat here at L’Hotel du Fucktards brought her latest litter out into the sunshine for the first time (approx. 5 weeks old). Five big, fat, fluffy, energetic, just regular old kittens. Gorgeous. As of today, there’s one, and it’s sick and weak as a wrung-out towel. I gave it some liquid Amoxicillin and a couple syringes of water, put out fresh food for it and waited for Papi & Mama to come back and tend to it. Since La Chalmatienne has been threatening the ferals that I’ve already gotten neutered (Tommie, Callie, Ginger & Papi) again (her precious fucking flower beds), I’m pretty sure that she put some antifreeze out by the brambles/bushes that separate this dump from the used-car lot next door, where Mama & Papi (though he’s not the father, he still caters to her every whim and helps her raise her chirren) have been hiding the new litter. I can’t prove it, the cops here wouldn’t give a fuck if I tried to press charges, and getting the Baton Rouge SPCA/CAAWS up here is about like trying to get a multiple amputee to give you a root canal. And if I bring that one little kitten inside my apartment to nurture it, I’ll get evicted. Period. So what’s another bleeding ulcer, right.

Then Cat Haven Cathy, bless her heart, volunteered me to go help this lady up by Angola who has FIFTY — I shit y’all not — FIFTY FUCKING CATS, and they all have FELINE CHLAMYDIA!!!!!! She thinks that a week of intensive dosing with some medicine that she found out about on the internet will save them all. I’ve seen the ones who are hovering at death’s door, and they’re not coming back.
The hard part is getting a grown woman to accept this fact. The fact that those cats are the only thing really keeping her alive makes it all the more difficult for me to tell her the truth. I am more than willing, as much as I am physically able (still trying to find a REAL medical malpractice lawyer), to help her save the cats who have a good chance of survival. What I will NOT do, though, is drag out the slow and painful deaths of cats who are, flat-out, DYING. If my Nannie had been in a REAL hospital, with REAL surgeons, she WOULD have lived, but to allow those hacks and miscreants at Lane Memorial to continue to carve her up like a fucking christmas turkey would have been even more cruel than everything else that the Fallen Uterus did to that woman over her long and painful life. I have a DNR tattoo for a fucking REASON: because medical science is not distributed fairly in this country, and because as a “failure” (disability/SSI/Medicare/Medicaid), I will never have access to what private-insurance patients can have, thusly I will NEVER put the option of putting me through vegetative-state HELL into the hands of “medical professionals.” I have made that decision for myself, and it is on record with the Secretary of State’s office.

I love cats. Just about everybody I know loves animals of one kind or another, most love them all. That’s why I will not prolong the suffering of any animal, just to make a human “feel better.” You think that you’re doing them such a favor, spending hundreds of dollars at the vet on a cat with a terminal disease, that’s lost an eye to it, that’s back at death’s door, and yet you refuse to see the animal itself. You project your pain, your need, your fear onto that animal, and refuse to see how that animal is really feeling, is really suffering, is really dying.

This shit is killing me.

I was so happy, after the clusterfuck of the cats at the Myrtles Plantation (part two coming this Friday), when I got multiple punctures & cat-scratch fever rash again, and only got one cat actually neutered, I was so happy to have caught that beautiful little black boy cat at the recycling center (I was still going after that elusive and smartassed calico who just dropped another litter, the slut), and to have been able to have him neutered. He really stole my heart, he was so gentle, so sweet, so docile for a feral cat, sang the blues like Biddy, but with a high-pitched baby-cat voice, he reminded me of Ronnie James Dio. Probably vaguely associated with the fact that “Rainbow In The Dark” was on the radio when I went to release him the next day. He was so sweet. Didn’t even want to be set free. I had to sweet-talk/slide him out of the pet carrier. Didn’t run, just casually strode away, looking over his shoulder at me the whole way. He wanted a human. And it killed me that it couldn’t be me. He’s the only feral (aside from when Smudge & Tommie were still stoned after surgery, and then Tommie whupped my ass when her hangover wore off) who ever let me PET him. And fully conscious at the time — will miracles never cease.

Biddy still hasn’t had her lumpectomy on her tail, because the money that y’all made sure I had to do that with, I had to spend on both of them, because they both have upper-respiratory infections. Anybody who’s wanting to go on a diet, call me and I’ll describe what happens when you try to give liquid amoxicillin to Boy, the world’s biggest fucking drama queen. It’ll kill your appetite for life. I’ve raised and handled damned near every kind of livestock/pets except for goats, pigs, and tarantulas in my life, and the— well, that THING that he did when faced with liquid amoxi drops was more repellant, more repugnant, and more disgusting than I’ve ever seen before, including mucking horse stalls that the “owners” let pile-up for WEEKS. Worse than anything that I’ve ever hocked-up from my sarcoidosis-riddled lungs. Exchanging the drops for pills bright & early tomorrow.

So, I haven’t blogged worth a shit in a while now, as we all know. And with the massive 50-cat project coming up (as soon as the medicine comes in), the neverending pursuit of the slutty Mama cats here and at the recycling center, my medical situation in spinal limbo (not to mention the neck and the knees), and so forth and so on, I’m going to need a helluva lot more help around here. If you haven’t read RenB’s piece on “America as a stroke patient” below, do so. It’s good stuff. And I need more of it. About eight trillion political items have come and gone that I wanted to write about and try to DO something about in the past month, and I’ve missed them all. I’ve done more commenting than I’ve done real writing, not that I’ve done a whole lot of that this year, anyway.

I’ve gone past “Crazy Cat Lady” to the far side of I don’t know where or how to get back. But somehow, at some point, there’s got to be an end to the madness. If more people would NEUTER THEIR FUCKING PETS, there’d be a whole helluva lot more time for me to recuperate from the broken screw in my botched spinal fusion, get my multiple-herniated-disk/bone deformities neck fixed, and have some fake cartilage injected into my knees.

And for any motherfuckers out there who still believe that all of us “welfare queens” don’t “contribute to society,” bite my fat, exhausted, painful, wide, white, gelatinous tattooed ass. No, there’s nobody who’d pay me to do this job, and there’s no way in hell that I’d be able to sustain it on a 40-hour-week basis. If I ever get done with fixing all of the fucking cats in this parish that the animal-control guy doesn’t give a fuck about, maybe then I can have the time to worry about “sitting around on my fat ass” as The Dick claims that I do.

So, the rest of you who’ve been invited to blog here, please do. There’s bad shit happening every fucking day, there’s more and more evil being perpetrated by republicunts that needs exposure (and no, not in a JimmyJeff GannonGuckert kind of way), as they do their damnedest to make Clinton’s last-minute pardons look like GOOD DEEDS BY A FUCKING SAINT.

And somebody draft Max Cleland to run for president, because I’d carry his ammo any fucking day.

P.S. Speaking of ammo, they named a character after me on “American Dad.” Okay, so she’s nothing like me, but ya don’t hear my name every fucking day.


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4 Responds so far- Add one»

  1. 1. Donnie McDaniel Said:

    Cats, gotta love them. The white Persian that my neighbor has, likes to hang out in my yard for some reason. It runs away each time I come home. But today, it actually stayed laying down close to the door. I talked to it and it was too funny! The cat just kinda leaned its head to the side and gave me a once over. Then it went back to its own little world.

  2. 2. Anne Johnson Said:

    I’ve got two rescue cats, both neutered females. One of them came into my yard with her litter as a kitten. She was wild until my daughter tamed her by making her eat Meow Mix at my daughter’s feet. Anyway, now I look at my two rescues and I just marvel that they lived through their kittenhoods. I know about the one, I don’t know about the other (we got her from a cat lady who had to have her neutered).

    Cat hoarders are not normal mentally. The lady with 50 has OCD.

  3. 3. Terrible Said:

    50 is a lot of cats!!! Bet she doesn’t have mice though!

  4. 4. Agent Orange Said:

    I saw that episode… dammit with the greenies!

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