Halloween was always a big deal and we prepared for it a week in advance. Now some people were all into the rotten egg thing. We considered that pretty lightweight. Matter of fact, the folks running around egging houses and cars normally ran smack into one our roadblocks. Now, anyone who was anyone on the holler knew to stay off the damn road at Halloween. Most people knew how to avoid us, which was, take the “way-back-yonder road.”
We switched around from year to year so folks never really knew where we were placing the roadblocks. Our roadblocks were made from just about everything but the kitchen sink and I think we even found an old one in the creek to use one year. Mainly brush, tree limbs and even trees themselves, cut just enough that all we had to do was put our backs into it and they would spread themselves all pretty on the road. And yeah, we put them in curves for the dumbass idiots going sixty drunker than shit.
This did not endear us to two distinct groups of folks. 1) The county sheriff and 2) State Troopers. See, before you got to the 3rd holler, we always set a roadblock and had a squealer that would call or radio on a CB that the cops were at the first roadblock so we could hide or otherwise make ourselves scarce. Which normally amounted to hiding on the mountainside and telling everyone to shush. One year though, they got smart. The squealer radios up. No problem, we hit the brush. Ten minutes later the CB squawks again.
“Guys, guys!! Hey!” We’re all groaning about that loud fucker and wish he would shut up until he says, “GUYS GODDAMN IT THEY JUST PASSED THE FORK AND ABOUT THREE OF THEM SUMBITCHES JUST GOT OUT AND THEY’RE GOING INTO THE MOUNTAIN!!!!” Can you say, “Oh Fuck!!” We sure did. It looked like a Chinese Fire Drill right there in downtown Appalachia. We popped out those mountains like a nest of rabbits in front of a brushhog. Escape plan B.
The Big Mama, who was on our CB radio frequency, throws open the door and says, “Ya’ll better get yo asses in here!!!” So, yours truly and seven other camouflaged, faced-painted heroes are cowering like sissies behind Big Mama’s couch, looking at each other like, “what was I thinkin’”
My eyes close,
as I picture your face,
Your scent falls around me,
I am lost in your essence,
Breath escapes in sighs,
I sacrifice myself to you,
Your lips grazing
the curve of my shoulder,
I burn, turn in the darkness
and miss you.
I’d like to think the Beaufriend is withdrawing from me because of his overwhelming love but instead I stand in front of the mirror and ask, “Are you being an idiot?”
“What compels you my dear to wade through this insanity?”
“Because I don’t trust him.”
“Who don’t you trust?”
“Who don’t you trust?”
“Who don’t you trust?”
That’s a lyric from the Dierks Bentley song “What Was I Thinkin’.” I’m not a huge country music fan but that song brings back some great memories. The lyrics and the MP3 are here: http://www.hit-country-music-lyrics.com. If you click on Top 20 List Dierks is #9 on it. When you click it, it brings up the lyrics and the song starts playing, at least on my computer.
My parents were pretty strict so naturally I had to find a way around that. Which was hanging out with much older folks. My 16 year old self would ride the school bus to C.J.’s who lived in a holler, off a holler, off a holler. I’d change out of those prissy, sissy clothes my mom bought for me into jeans with more holes than denim, a pink tank top, camouflage jacket and shit kickers a 100 years old, cuz you never knew “where the night might lead.”
C.J. and D.E. would get home from work with a fifth of vodka and a gallon of orange juice. C.J. was 6 years older than me and D.E. was 8 or 9. He had kids, course that don’t mean much around these parts. Serious drinking would ensue. We played drinking games and when we ran out of orange juice the vodka bottle would be passed to me. I was the only one whose liver was young enough to handle it. I’d shoot the rest of the bottle, which normally consisted of 2-3 good chugs. It would be about 10-11 p.m. by now and time to hit the dives.
No bar where I lived could be considered a honky-tonk. We weren’t that high on the food chain. Hell, I doubt that two were even considered dives as most people there appeared to have dove and hit the bottom. Bottom dwellers, shit eaters, scum suckers. People who had a record a mile long, a couple murderers, bikers with bad, bad attitudes and guns. We didn’t hang there, we just bought booze and left. C.J. took care of me. She was like a big sister but a lot more protective. Never fear though, I had an attitude, a death wish and the balls to prove it. When I got something in my mind, there was no stopping me, sorta.
Like the night I took off with J.W. and D.L. J.W. was hot, hot, hot. Black hair and the bluest eyes. He played basketball with my brother. D.L. was a little pipsqueak who looked like a good wind could have blown him away who bragged about his massive cock. He musta been a grower. I jumped in the truck with them, three sheets to the wind with C.J. and D.E. in hot pursuit. Nothing like a drag race on a one and a half lane road. C.J. and D.E. both had Mustangs so we got a head start. We got to the turn off to the 3rd holler when I told J.W. to take the right fork, instead of the left.
He slowed down and looked at me, “Goll damn it girl, C.J.’ll kill me if I don’t take you home.”
“What? You scared?” He gave me that “you bitch” look but spun around into the right hand fork. D.L. freaks. “Do you know how much fucking trouble we’re gonna be in man?? Do you know?? Fuck.” We hightailed it up the holler with D.L. looking for headlights behind us, cussing a blue streak. When J.W. pulled it over on an old logging road, D.L. jumped out. “I want nothing to do with this!” I did. I wanted everything to do with that boy. The only light was from the dashboard but he had that look in his eye and ohhh, I know I did. I am ready to eat that boy alive. Then D.L. bangs on the bed of the truck.
“Headlights comin’.” DAMN IT!! I swing the door open and D.L. hops in.
C.J. pulls up, “Get ya asses down the holler.” C.J. was the kind of person you just didn’t argue with. I’m pissed, J.W.’s pissed and D.L. isn’t real happy either. So, J.W. gets a wild hair, starts fucking around and ditches the truck. Meaning, he fucked around enough to put it IN the ditch. D.L. slides against the door and I slide against him. This is why I wear shit-kickers. C.J. pulls up from the way we came and D.E. pulls up from the other direction. J.W. pulls me and D.L. out from the driver’s side since we’re kissing dirt on the other side.
There’s no hope. Neither of the Mustangs can pull that bitch out and we’re not going to be able to push it either. We split up and that was the end of that.
You may wonder why I let C.J. order me around. First, she was a big girl but second, I was wild as hell and damn ready to fuck my life up as completely and royally as I could in the shortest time possible. A few years after that, she and D.E. sat down and had a talk with me. They said I didn’t belong there and I needed to get out. To hit the road and never look back. I did. I still fucked up royally but it was at least in a time period that I could handle it.
Next Time: Halloween in the Holler
And I am a Co-Dependent and an empath.
I hate that word. I hate it! I hate enabler worse. Co-dependency has led me down a path of self-destruction and self-destructive relationships with married men, alcoholics and sometimes, both. I trace this back to a childhood of emotional and physical abuse. Where I was made to feel responsible for someone else’s happiness. Where nothing I did was ever good enough. Where I had to be the good child or risk the withdrawal of affection and attention, and still, it was never good enough. Nothing I did was ever good enough, ever.
I became an over-achiever while wallowing in a world that seemed to have no place for me. I had super-intelligence which propelled me into the realms of gifted classes. I was the youngest editor of the yearbook, winner of a writing award in which I beat out 200 other students from 55 high schools, I was the first and only exchange student, to date, from my school after winning a scholarship from the United States and Germany’s governments, Governor’s Honor Academy, Honor Society, soloist on two instruments in the band. Yeah, I did all that. That’s me. None of it ever fucking mattered.
After the demise of my last relationship with the Drunk Boyfriend, a friend who is a recovering alcoholic gently asked me if perhaps I was co-dependent. I remember reading the characteristics of co-dependents with a sick, sinking feeling. An even deeper pit formed when I read the reasons behind co-dependency.
In a nutshell, but far from an entire explanation, is the need to focus on everyone around you and their problems as opposed to facing your own. We make excuses for the people in our life, we anticipate other’s needs then wonder why they don’t anticipate ours, we say yes when we want to say no, we’re afraid of anger, our own and everyone elses, we will do practically anything to avoid confrontation, and we will practically do anything to avoid abandonment. We’re obsessing, controlling and manipulative because we constantly feel as though we know what is best for other people.
That hurts. But not as much as it used to. First, I let my anger and hate towards my mother go. She was the root of the problem, my dad to a small extent, but mainly it was my mom. I love her and I feel sorry for her that she was raised in an environment that precipitated her feelings and her feelings towards me. I no longer allow her to manipulate me by her whining and crocodile tears. I turn her off.
I do a check-up, as I am now, to make sure I’m not backsliding into my old ways. Am I taking on other people’s problems instead of working on my own? Who am I saying yes to that I should say no? Am I obsessing? Have I asked for what I want instead of believing people should read my mind or pick up subtle clues as to what my needs are? Most importantly, how am I with Hyper-Boy? Am I allowing him enough freedom? Am I using him as an excuse to not take care of myself? Am I being a hermit? (I’m always a hermit.) Am I okay? Am I happy? What do I need to get there?
I’m still getting there.
“Empathic people…have the ability to translate energetic impulses into emotional awareness. They feel their way through life, through decisions, and through relationships in a deepening and life-affirming way.” In other words, I can tell what your feeling, draw those feelings out, filter them through myself and send them back to you, supposedly for your betterment.
Its hell on Earth when you don’t know what you’re doing. I’ve done this for years and never knew what it was. But instead of filtering, which may have helped when I was younger, I absorbed. I absorbed the emotions around me. I never let them go. I didn’t know how. Until through chance I found a book that described what I was and how to deal with it.
Funerals are absolute Hell. HELL!! So many emotions I can’t stand it. And worse, people in pain, in emotional pain, are drawn to me. Empaths are highly sensitive people, in tune to people and animals, plants, hell, you name it. Of course, some empaths are more in tune to one or two things than all things. For me, its people and animals. And don’t think you have to be standing in front of me. Empaths can sense your feelings over the phone, through e-mail, chat and personal letters. And don’t ever let one of us touch your hand. We will see behind your cover. You can’t hide from an empath unless…you know how.
Co-Dependency & Empathy..OH MY!
One of the characteristics of a co-dependent is believing you know how someone else is feeling. I was damned confused for a long time on that. Not surprisingly, an unhealthy empath, one who has not learned to filter emotions instead of accepting them, one who has not learned to turn it off for some peace, has some of the same characteristics of a co-dependent. It may be part of what leads some of us down that path. I don’t know.
I’m becoming a much better empath and a much worse co-dependent. I’m working on it.
Enter the Beaufriend
There’s nothing better for an empath to have in a relationship than another empath. It didn’t take me long to figure out that the Beaufriend was also an empath. And a damn good one too. But by also being an empath, I felt his emotional withdrawal from me at the beginning of our relationship and I called him on it. Literally, all is good and then WHAM! he’s gone. I hated that. AAAGGHHHHHH!!! I HATED IT!!!! But I also understood why, but it didn’t make me like it anymore.
He controls his empathy better and gave me tips on how to “turn it off.” I guess you could say I mirrored him when I felt like I needed to. I learned from his own withdrawal how to formulate my own. When my grandfather died, I learned from him how to filter other’s feelings as he filtered mine. When I’m with the Beaufriend, I feel like I float. Its like two negative charges creating something positive. Literally, we can be in a crowded room full of drunk people, which are the absolute worlds worst to be around because their defenses are down and still find a moment of peace amongst them.
But I’m still co-dependent. With that comes a whole host of problems with the Beaufriend. No wonder he turns me off sometimes. Right now, I’m getting itchy. In other words, the dreaded feeling of abandonment is popping up. And I don’t think its just me. The Beaufriend is good at turning some feelings off around me but he sucks at it when we’re not together. He has the same worries and fears that I do. Just call us Barbie and Q when it comes to past relationships. I try not to let it influence me but sometimes the dread is so intense I just cry because I can’t do anything else.
Then its back to the list. Am I telling him what I need? Am I keeping my mouth shut so as not to start a fight that I don’t want? Am I standing up for myself? Am I expecting him to read my mind? Am I being used?
I have faced down some intense moments in my time with the Beaufriend. I lived in absolute fear of telling him that he hurt my feelings. I lived in absolute fear of voiceing what I wanted. Everytime I said something, I waited for the mockery and the withdrawal of affection and the manipulation to start. I steeled myself to break it off if that happened. I REFUSE TO LET SOMEONE TREAT ME LIKE THAT AGAIN!!! Luckily, he hasn’t.
We discussed before how when you’re treated like shit you do one of two things. One, you vow to never treat someone else like that yourself or two, you treat everyone as bad or worse than you’ve been treated. We made a pact, I guess that’s what you call it, to be together because we want to be, not because we’re living in fear of what might come after. The Beaufriend has a way of reassuring me without being patronizing.
I’m running on half-full here. I worry a lot about things I probably shouldn’t. I worry about me and the Beaufriend because I love him dearly. I’m constantly caught in a battle between empathy and co-dependency, questioning always, afraid to fall back into the abyss. Sometimes, its a daily struggle. Today, has been a bad day. I think he’s frightened too. I feel it. We’re battling against the abyss, against fear. I think we battle too, not to smother each other. Unfortunately, this puts us at odds in love. To love is to suffer in our book. So, its baby steps. Its looking in the mirror and asking, “Am I being an idiot?”
I worry about Hyper-Boy too. He’s one of the reasons I work so hard at this. While he may be screwed up, it won’t be for lack of trying on my part to give him the best I got. His self-esteem sucks too. As I work with him, I work on myself. His father, doesn’t help anything. I battle for Hyper-Boy on that front as well. Attempting to undo damage while not dissing his dad.
Blogging… Good or Bad?
Before anyone read my stuff, I wrote a lot but never posted it. Just like, well, the 5 diaries I keep. I don’t write in them everyday and sometimes I write letters to people or to the Beaufriend and never send them, so I keep them as diaries too. Blogging is good. Its good because I’ve found people that I can relate to and hopefully can relate to me. I get lonesome sometimes, internally lonesome, emotionally lonesome because I tend to hermit (I am a hermit) emotionally and physically.
At least emotionally, I don’t feel so alone anymore. I’m starting to pick up people’s vibes through their posts which is a little… scary. I’ll keep those vibes to myself though but not in me. I think blogging helps me sort things out and makes room in my brain for something else.
But blogging is addictive. I’ve felt myself sliding since I started participating in discussions etc. For someone used to puttering along in the Outer Rim, its frightening to be pulled into the galaxy, with so much to see, so much to learn, so much to feel. So much to distract me from me and my problems. But I love people. I love learning about people and reading about them because sometimes, it helps me understand me a little better. It also helps to know I’m not really alone.
Perhaps blogging is an exercise in which to help me learn how to filter, but not accept, to care, but not to obsess. “The 7 Jewels of Co-Dependency” says “Its never wrong to love.” I really believe that. I just have to remember that love starts within myself, for myself, before I love others.
Damned, if that’s not the hardest thing of all.
I am a Wiccan. Click on the title above if you don’t know what I’m talking about or want to learn more. Interestingly enough, today’s topic on witchvox.com is not living life as a victim. I’ll post about that later.
I have a great love of religion and not just my own. I own 5 bibles, books on Judiasm and Jewish mysticism that is the “rage” in Hollywood, books on Buddhism, and just books on religion. I have yet to pick up a copy of the Koran but its on my list.
Whoever hasn’t heard something about Islamic extremists in the past 2 1/2 years has been under a rock in the desert hiding from deposed despot Saddam Hussein. I harbor no ill will towards Muslims, no more so than Baptists or Catholics or anyone else.
I own an Abaya set. This is the traditional Muslim dress for women. Do not confuse it with a burka. A burka is the head to toe covering with even the eyes covered. An Abaya is like a long dress with long sleeves that uses buttons, clasps or velcro to stay in place. With it came a shayla which is a long oblong scarf not be confused with a hijab which is a HUGE scarf. Muslims believe a woman should be modest, hence all the covering.
I see Muslims practically everyday in the city that I work. We have a Muslim population large enough that they have a beautiful Mosque in the town next to mine. One Muslim that I know is Jamal. He runs a cigarette store. I went in his store one day before 9/11 in a brilliant red dress I own. He looks at me, raises his eyebrows and in his soft voice says, “I love America!” (Smile)
I worried about him after 9/11. Worried that people would come after him or his store. I did venture over to his store where he always watches cable news channels. He and I stood and watched the news from Ground Zero. I asked, “well, what do ya think?” He turned to me and pulled his mouth into a frown, “I think, there are crazy people all over the world.” I think so too Jamal.
My aunt is very prejudiced against people who are not Christian. Her daughter, also a Wiccan but firmly in the broom closet, reminds her that America gives us the right to be any religion we want. My aunt responds with, “Yes, the right to be a Christian.” OY!
I don’t blame all Muslims for 9/11. Nor do I blame all Christians for witch burnings, nor believe all Catholic priests are pedophiles. Let’s be honest, any religion can draw freaks. Waco anyone? Nor do I believe I have the right to try and convert anyone away from their religious beliefs. Extremism, yes, their religion, no.
I worked at a portrait studio for three years, major chain. A few Muslim women would bring their children in. One in particular you would never know was Muslim. She obviously loved western culture. The other dressed in an Abaya and shayla. I was out the studio when this occurred so it is second hand. The typically dressed Muslim comes to the studio sans children and tells T.C. that she wants to get a portrait taken for her husband.
She also tells T.C. that she cannot look at her while she takes off her scarf. T.C. is like, okay, no problem and directs her to the back of the studio for privacy. I believe she also told T.C. that no one, NO ONE, can see her with her scarf off, even T.C. If I’m remembering correctly, T.C. argued that she HAD to look at her to take the picture and warned her that at least ten other people would see the picture during developing etc. The Muslim woman appeared concerned and then decided to go ahead with it.
T.C. left her alone and the Muslim woman called for her when she was ready. She had taken off the Abaya and Shayla. She had on an ornate long sleeved blouse and nothing else. T.C. freaked. She explained to the woman that she couldn’t just traipse around in our studio half nude. Now, this is a woman who didn’t want T.C. to see her without her head covering on but is now half-nude. OY!! Her rationale was that she just wanted the picture from the waist up. OY!!
T.C. finally covered up her bottom with a drape and took the pictures. Naturally the pictures were flagged so when they came in we could see her. I didn’t recognize her. She was gorgeous. A very naturally beautiful woman. Stunning. So, in that instant, I really understood Muslims a little more, at least the religion and the whole modesty thing.
So, when I see Muslim women out and about, I think to myself, “I wonder what she’s wearing under there?”
Next Time: Hey Mom! Baptists are on the Porch!
I just read on Jay’s blog, see links to the left if you haven’t already checked it out and he stated in the comments section that “pussy is power and women have it all!!!!” Not sure if I got the number of exclamation points right, but I’m really, really tired.
I want to thank Jay for that comment and the comments that Seeker and I have shared about why the Beaufriend acts the way he does. I told Seeker that sometimes I feel like the Beaufriend is waiting on me to go postal on him. Wow, this all makes so much more sense.
Judging from the posts that I have read on a mulitude of blogs and “conversations” (i.e. running commentary on posts) that many women know that have that pussy power and choose to use it to get whatever they can. If you’re a woman like that GET OFF MY PLANET!!! Take a note from Zelda and stop holding out to get your way. Using sex (or no sex) in a relationship is wrong. Its degrading, demeaning and a huge blow to anyones self-esteem. I know this because guys have done it to me. If you’re a guy like that GET OFF MY PLANET!!!
I love my guy. I don’t care if he buys me a fucking Rolls Royce or picks a dandelion walking up the steps to my front door or shows up empty-handed, he’s gonna get laid. Why? Because he treats me with respect, like a human being with my own thoughts and feelings, because he talks with me instead of at me and because he tries to understand where I’m coming from. He doesn’t pay MY mortgage, take out MY garbage, take care of MY kid or mow MY lawn. I feel privileged to have someone in my life who doesn’t steal the mortgage money from my checking account, then goes out and gets lap dances all night and comes home so drunk he pisses on me in the bed. YES, that happened to me!
I feel privileged he’s never broken my door in or felt up my friends. I feel privileged that he hasn’t drunkenly tried to fuck me up the ass or called in the middle of the night to bail him out of jail. I feel privileged that he hasn’t beat bruises on me or my child (otherwise he would be dead and I’d be writing this from prison.)
So forgive me if I don’t whine, piss and moan about the fact that I haven’t seen him in 10 days because he’s been working 16 hour shifts. I’m grateful he has a job and keeps it. Forgive me if I don’t pout and stew because he hasn’t been able to say more than, “I miss ya babe and I can’t wait to see ya when I can keep my eyes open…snore.” I’m grateful he’s thinking about me. It means so much.
So if ya got a decent guy then treat him like you want to keep him. Men, don’t treat your women like shit. Am I idealistic? You’re damn straight I am!! The Crazy Cat Woman from the Appalachians has had her say, now I’m going to bed. Good night.
This is going a lot longer than I intended but now that I’ve started, I’m not stopping. Everyone from my parents to the Beaufriend have mentioned that I just have way too many cats. I, at times, have wondered what the hell I’m doing and have thought about decreasing my population.
But I can’t. I feel same way about my cats as my dad does his trees. They all have different personalities. If the subject comes up again I will challange the one who asks me to rid myself of the emotional and yes, financial burden of my pets to pick one thing in their life that gives them solace, that makes them laugh, that they love and look foward to and then I want them to give it up. Forever.
Financially, things are finally looking up (crosses fingers it stays that way.) I know within the next couple of weeks that I will be able to get M. & N. spayed. Then Napoleon, since he will be the only male left, will be neutered. In succession, his sisters will be spayed also.
I do realize though, that I’m maxed out. No further cats or other creatures will be welcomed into my home. I say other creatures because the Drunk Boyfriend brought home an oppossum one time. That was interesting!!!
Next time, I’ll not be so long-winded and will be talking about my adventures with Baptists, Muslims and religion in general. That’s gonna be FUN!!
I wanted a black cat. Naturally, the nabes cat came up pregnant AGAIN… small wonder there as she’s NOT FIXED! I said if she had a black kitten I would take it. NOT SO!! She had three, two were black and white. Awww shit…frig, okay. I was really hoping they would be a boy and a girl. I wanted to name them Boris and Natasha or Gomez and Morticia. Sorry, both girls. So, they’re Natasha and Morticia. They are twins, except for the toe on Natasha’s left foot and the fact that Morticia also has allergies and is practically bald at this point. OY!
As things happen, my financial situation after the Drunk Boyfriend moved out, prevented me from getting M & N fixed like I had the rest. So, they became strictly housecats until I could get my feet back under me. N. has no interest in going outside, even while in heat because she’s in love with Ozzy (and acts just like him.) M., unfortunately, made a beeline for any open door even when she wasn’t in heat. It was also extremely difficult to tell when she was in heat because she wasn’t a crier and whiner like her sister. Hyper-Boy and T.L.C. didn’t shut the door after them and allowed M. outside. This is how we got Mongoya (rest his soul), Napoleon, Lola and Ireland. OYYYYY!!!
Surprise, surprise. I always figured all the cats born of the calico (that’s Hermione, M. & N.) had Siamese in them. Sleek, trim bodies and triangular faces. It wasn’t until M. mated with her uncle, URG!, that it came out. Napoleon and Ireland look Siamese, except Ireland got her mom’s white feet. Lola, hee hee, is black with a little bit of white on her belly. Mongoya, who is memorialized in an earlier post, was black and white.
Since Mongoya’s death I have fought for the lives of the other kittens as they all contracted what he had. The vet has no clue what it is, just knows its not parasitic in nature. Luckily, he gives me a discount because we’ve had carnal knowledge of each other. I think (crosses fingers) that they are all on the path to recovery.
I also think I’ve given them a complex. I purposefully change the litterbox, the whole litterbox, not just scooping, when I have the time to stand around and watch them all come running to potty. Nothing draws cats like an entirely cleaned and disinfected litterbox. I stand and wait for each to take their turn so I can see how their bowels are functioning and if they need more meds or if its all good. I just laughed at myself for this (and I’m reminded of Seeker who has trouble with public restrooms and his own cat troubles. He’s linked here so if anyone has made it this far check him out and make sure you go potty beforehand.)
Next: Love, love, love
So, Smokey has now survived Ollie, Hobbs and the birth of Hyper-Boy. Hyper-Boy was almost three when I bought my house. I digress. Our neighbors also had a cat that looked a lot like Smokey but he died within a couple of months of us moving here. Their next cat also died. Then they got two females. One was pregnant when they got her, and one became pregnant soon thereafter, despite being told both were fixed. Someone is still laughing about this.
I told them I would take one. ONE! I picked out a tan/carmel colored male, brought him home and named his Oscar or Ozzy. He hates practically all people. He only likes being petted for a very short time and then he’s gone. He doesn’t lay on your lap or anything, Mr. Anti-Social. Right after his litter was born (May 13th), the other litter was born (May 31st). Their mother was a calico. I wasn’t going to get one until T.L.C. came over with this kitten, reminded me of Smokey, nasty, just nasty, not to mention, downright UGLY. He said, “If we don’t find a home for this one we’ll have to take her to the pound.” She purred, I was hooked.
I thought about naming her Sharon or Harriet since I had an Ozzy but since I had just read Harry Potter, she was dubbed Hermione. Hee hee, can I just say that nasty kitten is gorgeous now? Its very hard to describe her… medium long hair, she’s considered a calico since she has tri-colored fur but she’s striped like a tabby and big green eyes. She also have frigging allergies. YUCK! But otherwise, she’s Ms. Love. She loves everybody, even the people in cars as they have to slow down because she lays in the middle of the road. She looks like a squirrel on stilts.
Next Up: The Twins
People ask, “How did you get so many cats?”
The story of the cats. When I moved out on my own, I had to get a cat. I left Alex, or Boo-Boo, with my parents, or rather they threatened my life if I took him. A lady at work had a cat that just had kittens. Wha-la. He was a freaky mauve color with mauve eyes. I named his Oliver, or Ollie.
Two weeks later, I was back at the homestead, between the time that my parents moved deeper into the wooded abyss and they sold their house and heard a cat meowing. My friend and I found this tiny grey kitten under the azalea bush. He was pitiful. Flea-bitten, hair falling out, malnourished. UGH! I took this gray fuzz and got flea soap. ARGH! YUCK! NASTY! I washed him up good and when I poured water over him it looked like he peed blood. I combed what was left of his fur, he was one big flea, that’s all. Fed him lamb and rice, he learned to lick water and then I wrapped him up in big beach towel and he slept for hours.
That small gray fuzz is now cock of the walk here. (Ollie, even after being fixed, left, or was stolen, and never returned.) Smokey is a 15 lb. monster whose sole purpose in life is to rout my yard of any dog that dares to sniff a blade of our grass. He has medium long hair so he looks that much bigger. His first foray with my Lab, which I no longer own, was a scratched cornea and $200 in vet bills.
When I moved from my Tornado-bait (yes, there are tornados in the Appalachians and they do gravitate toward trailers) I had sort of adopted the cat next door named Hobbs. Yes, he looked like Hobbs, duh. The neighbor didn’t like him because she hadn’t gotten him fixed and he sprayed everything. But she didn’t feed him either, scraps off the table. She also said that he was her cat and I couldn’t take him with me. Fine.
Two days after they pull my trailer out, my other neighbor calls to say that Hobbs is still sitting on my porch meowing. (Sigh) I told him under the cover of darkness to stick him in a cat carrier and bring him down. I got his neutered and he and Smokey still sort of liked each other. I have say though, he had the worst kitty breath of any cat I’ve ever owned and never failed to want to stick his face in yours for love.
By and by, he too left and never returned. This leaves me with one cat, again.