ziidjian

Page Seventy-two

(back to the copying from Soulcast)

sehnen posted on Jun 25, 2008 | views: 69 | Tags: whispers to mex

wed 25 june 2008    Greenfield

So…  Ziidjian. Today I return to the stolen animals. A few days ago I talked about Chan, his brother. Like Chan, Ziidjian (pron. zeejan) was slaughtered by the local “shelter” on 24 March of this year. Ziidjian and Chan were a lot alike, and a lot like their mostly-Siamese mother. Shy, aloof, etc. But Ziidjian had a lot more of the famous Siamese high-strung nature than the rest of his family. And he was extremely fearful of new people and strange animals.

In 2003, we were still in the home of my housemate who had died, and we had a bit of yard. Since Chan and Ziidjian had been indoor cats for a long time, I decided to take them to the great outdoors again. They were having a fine time. But Ziidjian had slipped into the abutting yard, and the next thing I heard was horrible yowling. A cat I hadn’t seen before was facing off with Ziidjian under a pine tree. I knew his nerves well enough to chase the other cat away, then wait for Ziidjian to calm down before trying to pick him up. I miscalculated. Picked him up too soon, while he was still in panic mode. Sank his fangs to the root into my hand. The pain was diabolical, but from many years with animals, I knew better than to pull my hand away, which would have resulted in the tearing of my flesh being added to the puncture wounds — and stitches. I waited. Eventually, when his fear was spent, Ziidjian removed his fangs. Within two hours, I knew I had blood poisoning, septicemia. I didn’t care. We were being evicted (a legal, above-board eviction after my housemate’s death), and had no place to go. As far as I could tell, we were all doomed anyway, and if I died of blood poisoning given to me by someone I loved as big as the sky, well, there were lots worse ways to die. And I would have my family around me when it happened (now that is ruined too). Over the next 48 hours the condition got much worse. I am stubborn (and I truly was hoping that I’d just die in my sleep of the infection). I loathe doctors, nurses and hospitals, a residue of my always-at-death’s-door childhood. I already had a doctor appointment set up for something else, so why not just hang on till then. If I didn’t make it, oh well. I waited the 48 hours till the appointment, and the doctor was not well pleased. He threatened me with the hospital and IV antibiotics. I said I would release myself if he did that. Bla bla bla.

                                                                        

                                       (10 mos. old; black cat, white rabbit)

I didn’t die. And that time, in 2003, my family and my life were not destroyed. Not until 2008. The scars from Ziidjian’s bite that day sit here on my hand and are dearer to me than I can say, now that he has been executed. I wish, I wish, that he had done the same thing to his killers. Sunk his fangs in to the root and infected them. I carry the marks of his intense fear, a fear as intense as my own, and a reminder not to get overconfident. I’ve been taking care of animals since I was about 4, and have learned a great deal by patient study and observation, and by reading books. But I say from time to time that animals can always surprise. Witness what happened to Steve Irwin, a one-off nut, a tireless and fearless animal person, and a hero of mine. And I believe that if Steve had been given a choice of his method of death, he would have chosen being killed by a frightened animal over anything else. He got that death.

I wasn’t so lucky. I survived the blood poisoning given to me by a frightened animal, by someone I loved deeply. When I think of my stolen and murdered Ziidjian, I think many things. Memories of a bossy kitten that I called King Z; memories of a grown-up cat who had a terror of strangers; of the little gurgling sounds in his throat when he ate something fresh I had cooked for the cats. The  serious, earnest look in his eyes when he would make a very high-pitched meow and ask me for something to eat. The way he would rub his slim body against me. And I look at my right hand where the one puncture scar remains, the only one of the five that was deep enough never to fill in, and I thank him for this scar to remember him by. I wish again that that infection had been the end. I much prefer it to the ending my animals and I did get.

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Update 18 July 2009 A couple of the scars from the bite that gave me blood poisoning are still here (though one is now almost gone), but the dearly loved boy who gave them to me is long dead. How I always failed them by being an oddball, by being unacceptable to others, and those others would so often deliberately try to hurt me and bring me down. It’s because a landlady and a crime-connected tenant hated me that Ziidjian is dead, that others are dead, that I remain without a home. It’s also because of lazy and indifferent social workers who didn’t like me much either, and so did not do their jobs. I’m used to being disliked and found unacceptable, but what I’ve never understood is why so many who have disliked me have felt the burning desire to go for my jugular in some way, and have acted on that desire. If they don’t like me, why can’t they just leave me alone and let me be odd. Wrongly and cruelly done.

                                   ~~~~~  website  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~    Share  

                                           (part of the book Stolen Stars)

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shiloh, and more

Page Thirteen                                (still copying)

sehnen posted on Apr 25, 2008 | views: 212 | Tags: commitablex, crime-chickx

Fri 25 april 2008         greenfield

Shiloh is one of my cats whom I know for sure has been killed, “euthanized,”   by an animal  “shelter” because she was over 15 years old, had a chronic nasal infection that I took care of with special meals and natural remedies. But the shelter couldn’t give her all that special care the way mom could, so they offed her. And my sweet Shirley Temple case manager at the Department of Mental Hell apparently thought it was better for some of my cats to be killed than to be taken care of by a person who’d loved them and nurtured them since they were born. This is Shiloh’s poem from the collection:

Number 11

Here is one more:
My years have been
explosions of words.
But now, four weeks in oblivion,
when I cry out for all
the right ones,
the best ones,
things arrive pale, scrawny, unfit.

 

Give me jewels, then, fate,
to say how dear she was,
how real and rich and remarkable
she was.
Give me a jeweled dagger
in my hand
to avenge her.                                   
 

 

I feel it necessary again at this juncture, because of the hordes of airheads who have labelled me “delusional,” to explain that writers use symbols and metaphors in their work, and that these things are not to be taken literally. I do not hallucinate any jeweled dagger in my hand: it is a symbol. Get it?

Click here to see another Shiloh photo.       

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In one of my blogs, but I’m not going fishing to find out which one, I started the story of the day the crime-chick showed up in my life: Saturday 15 July 2006. The psycho who moved into my building and began a year-and-a-half program of harassment that was designed, I guess, to drive me into a nervous breakdown that would get me to move out of the building. A year after her arrival, I heard her saying to a friend — outside my window — that she and my landlady had had a deal that if she could drive me to another nervous breakdown (I’d had one in 2003), the landlady would let her live rent-free. Sociopathic, conscienceless hags, the two of them. And boy, did she harass. She was constantly thinking up new ways to disturb my sleep, to upset my dogs, to frighten me, to get me to fall down the cellar stairs, and so on. Her imagination for new meanness seemed to have no limit. I still find this uncanny, but I’ve seen it in some other humans too: dullwitted in the extreme, and yet endlessly crafty at inventing ways to hurt someone else.

Update 20 May 2009, Greenfield: The psycho-chick is not in jail, though I had been told a few months ago that she was (for drug dealing, I presume). But I saw her today, so she ain’t in jail. She still likes to verbally taunt me when she drives by me in her convertible.

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Let’s get back to my murdered Shiloh. She was born on August 7, 1992. She would have been 16 in August of 2008, if she’d made it. But Shirley Temple, who pretended to be my pal and to understand how much I needed the animals and needed help putting them in foster care and needed her to be helping me find a place — yes, all an act — was instrumental in making them disappear and not telling me where they were or letting me visit them. She seemed to think, in the end, that I was not a good enough human for my animals because I am low-income, I can’t spend money like water.

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I didn’t put the tag commitable on this post. Someone else did that. Someone on Soulcast. Not unusual. The lunatic fringe has always been well represented on Soulcast.

Did the feds have anything to do with my eviction, and the hiding of my animals? I don’t know, because Matthew never answers questions like that. But in my anger and anxiety, I believe more or less anything is possible on the part of the feds, as they seem to have unlimited license to do anything they choose.

A little more on the crime-chick:

This creature is classically psychotic. Her face muscles twitch spastically, she tosses her arms around in demented fashion, she lies 24/7. She can not talk, she has to shriek. She is an alcoholic, sold and used, drugs. She intimidates her pansy-assed boyfriend as relentlessy as she intimidated me, and why he stays with a flaming sicko is beyond me. Sometimes I saw him laugh when she got really mental, so maybe he finds her amusing. The bitch needs a rubber room and loads of thorazine, but he finds her amusing.

More on the mafia brat another time.

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read…   Braon…  Cutting the pie

~~~~~  website  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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