Broken Lion Heart

Well, I was in the middle of a blog draft about the rise of the troll in the cyber world that is spilling over into the real world, when out of nowhere I was thrown a delayed #2 punch while still reeling from the major #1 that knocked me down not even a month ago. (I'm just throwing this post together so I can take a break and process things.) In a day under three weeks I lost a second kitty to a mysterious, sudden-onset fatal illness. Needless to say I am numb. I don't deal with grief and intense emotion real well so I'm in a sort of altered state, like my limbic system kicked in while I go about my day-to-day in auto pilot. I feel quivery inside and unable to focus. So I try to keep moving to get through it. Releasing some anger through writing this might help. ...

Blazer reminded me of the BKliban tabby.

Blazer was one of two kitties I took in after my elderly neighbor fell and broke his hip early one morning. He was an ornery old man who didn't allow help or intrusion, but we both shared a love of kitties. I took care of his kitties in his house for two months while he was moved from ICU to assisted living and back to ICU for dialysis due to kidney failure due to untreated diabetes. I thought he would eventually come home but his health took a nosedive. The man was so stubborn he suffered silently with his diabetes because he hated going to the doctors. No one could force him to do anything he didn't want to do. Period. I always listened for signs of life from his house because I knew he'd be the type who could otherwise die and go unnoticed for weeks until the smell of rotting flesh finally brought attention to his predicament. Without me there, that could have very well been the scenario. I'm up early so I did hear his cries for help.

Blazer couldn't wait to try out the new catio entry way even though it wasn't finished.

Blazer was a 17-lbs. lover boy with perfect tabby markings.

When it was apparent my neighbor was not coming home, his out-of-town estranged son, family and a few church mates drove up with a big dumpster to dispose of everything in the man's house ... except for the refrigerator, of course. The good pastor wanted that freebie. Another churchie took the free old Chevy Blazer in the garage that the owner didn't have the means to fix. The rest went into the trash – personal papers, pictures, his old Marine uniform. They wanted to do the same to the cats – toss them out! I didn't take care of them for two months just to have them killed! I desperately networked, trying to find Blazer and his old woman kitty partner, Hoodlum, a home, but to no avail. I took them in and continued to foster them, hoping to find them good homes when I moved to where I currently reside. I did what I thought was the right thing in my heart. I did the best I could with what I had. RIP my big Blazer boy. :(

 To throw salt on my unhealed wounds, the news of Minnesota dentist Walter J. Palmer and his cruel, profligate killing of Zimbabwe's Cecil the Lion spun me way off orbit. The fallout of this atrocious act echoes the sentiment of my last blog post about sentient beings, dominion and entitlement. (Synchronicity strikes again!) Palmer, like every trophy collector, was apparently not going to be happy until he had an entire representation of African wildlife in his … living room?! … garage?! … *gulp* … bedroom?!

Calvin & Hobbes fan forever!

I kid you not, Palmer wanted more, asking his guide about his next fix – hunting the biggest elephant on the planet – while still brutally finishing off Cecil the Lion.  He needed yet another wastefully ostentatious "prize" to add to his collection of ill-conceived and ill-gotten "trophies", which Jimmy Kimmel so aptly noted, "…he killed like half of Noah's Ark! …" I'm with Kimmel on the emotion and the loss of words for why people indulge in trophy hunting – and especially canned hunts. What is so manly about shooting fish in a barrel. It's just nasty and inconceivable to me. I'm a vegetarian so I don't need meat for my sustenance and I feel for the factory farm animals that are hyper-bred to keep up with the over-indulgent humans' insatiable appetites.

The majestic Cecil had a unique black mane. Source BBC.

A few of my favorite consistent rights activist celebrities have chimed in with their outrage against Cecil's senseless killing.  Mia Farrow came under fire for tweeting Palmer's work address, which was easily googled anyway. The always lovable animal champion, Betty White, is stunned and at a loss of words about Cecil's killing. Then there's Ricky Gervais, who's loudly and publicly been outing trophy hunters, posting their ridiculous selfies with their kills and shaming them. (Just scroll down Gervais' Twitter® timeline for some lulz.) Countless other celebrities have had their say. Surprisingly, among them was conservationist Jane Goodall, who said that she also had "no words to express" her "repugnance" about the heartbreaking incident.

Sweet Cecil head-bonks the mother of his cubs.

But, oh that equal opportunity Law of Karma. It's like the Law of Gravity: "It's not only a good idea! It's the law!" It's echoes Newton's Third Law Of Motion: "For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction." It doesn't discriminate and no one is above it, not even the rich. It's an unavoidable but necessary part of life. And now Palmer is getting much deserved fall-out for his apathy and depravity.  How does the hunter now feel as the hunted? This coward is now in hiding and has the chance to escape to a country that won't extradite him for his cowardice act – a chance not given to Cecil. Is there not a tinge of justice here? Is it not odd how the tables have turned? That man's killing of Cecil is the most expensive lesson he will ever learn in his life, whatever is left of it. Unfortunately, he took an innocent and majestic creature down in the process. Was it worth it, Mr. Palmer? What becomes of the beloved Cecil's head and remains? Just pondering these questions reveals the pointlessness of killing for a trophy head.

Whew! I've got to lick some wounds and eventually finish the blog post I began, which, in a bigger-picture sort of way, ties in with all of this human apathy. Be kind to all living things.

Demand Justice For Cecil The Lion In Zimbabwe. They are very close to reaching their million mark and will probably have surpassed it by the time some of you read this.

Also, please sign the White House petition to  Stop Exotic Animal Trophies From Entering The Unite States.

 

Ode To Opie

It was 13 days ago that I had to abruptly say goodbye to my big, sweet, handsome, boss-man ginger cat, Opie. Rescued nine years ago from the death row of a small-town high-kill shelter, he was the most gregarious character I've ever known. 

Opie sedated & out of pain as I say my goodbyes.

Opie took it upon himself as the Alpha kitty to groom his fur-mates and his human (me) … and just about any lick-worthy surface around. (One of his nicknames was OCD Cat). He was Mr. Personality – the talker, the kisser, the cuddle bug, the lover. He was such the charmer that he quickly gained celebrity status during his 3 1/2 day stay at the emergency veterinarian clinic those last days of June in the beginning of his quick decline. (I won't go into detail about everything that led up to Opie's demise, as it is still too painful. Suffice it to say that I feel immense guilt for not trusting my intuition about finishing out his expensive antibiotics and trusting the vet's recommendation that he didn't need the antibiotics anymore – going against the emergency clinic vet's orders).

Opie & me at the emergency veterinary hospital visiting room, June 27, 2015.

Opie's absence is painfully felt by all in the household. To watch his fellow fur-buds grieve the loss of their lion king slows my grieving process. The whole dynamic changed within my home but it's hard to define exactly how. There's a deafening silence. The energy and vibe here is … pensive.

The three boys closest to Opie occasionally still sniff around the hiding places in search of him. They meow at me as if asking, "where is he?!" And much of the time lately, they are depressed and mopey. Or clingy. I catch myself calling out Opie's name at feeding time, which probably confuses the others. Our day-to-day lives were so intertwined, the void left now is a gaping wound in a bleeding broken heart.

Opie & Dokken, July 10, 2015.

I'm not sure how long it will take to arrive at acceptance and peace in the grieving process. But it's sinking in now that Opie's not coming back. He has crossed over the Rainbow Bridge and waits for us there. I dedicate this blog post in Opie's honor. RIP my little man.

As I grow in maturity and become more self-actualized, I see now more than ever the inter-connectedness of all life – even at the quantum level. My intuition is in overdrive and the universe continues to roll out synchronous gifts like a red carpet, made to ease my path and deepen my understanding of my place in the grand scheme of life. Or sometimes the gifts confirm the seeds of thoughts and ideas germinating in my conscience, letting me know they are valid and that I'm dialed in and on track.

My funny little man.

Not even a day or two after Opie's passing, The Pussington Post re-upped one of their August 12, 2013 articles, "Do Cats Grieve For Lost Companions?". I was witnessing firsthand that cats DO indeed grieve for lost companions. I'd seen it many times in my hellacious two years as a shelter volunteer, racking up 2,500 hours in that time. I was deeply submersed and gave it my heart and soul. Most of the time it was all for naught. Cats I'd cleaned up and socialized were killed anyway to make room for more that would meet the same fate. Among the saddest cases were senior cats who have only known one loving home perish when they are brought to the shelter after their person dies. They are obviously grieving about their human and then they are thrown into a noisy place that smells like death. They get sick and are put to sleep. It is heart wrenching.

Opie was my yoga buddy.

The article was based on studies and observations by Barbara J. King, professor of anthropology at College William and Mary in Williamsburg, VA, and documented in her April 2013 book, "When Animals Mourn." King penned a book preview that same month for NPR: "When Animals Mourn: Seeing That Grief Is Not Uniquely Human".

My first response to reading the headline was joy. Thank Goddess the scientific community is getting on board with this "discovery"! Cats, in particular, get a bad rap. I attribute that to some deep-seated ailurophobic asininity left over from the crusades. Contrary to misguided popular belief, cats are capable of deep and loving bonds with humans. They aren't subservient. You have to earn their trust and respect. But don't mistake their independence for indifference. (Cats are like women, no?)

My second response was: They're finally figuring this out?! What took them so long? We INFJ/INFP* sensitives – we earthy hippie types who seem to relate better to nature's 4-legged critters than with the 2-legged variety – we knew this all along! We've been saying it for decades now. We basked in tour furry friends' non-judging unconditional love by being kind, understanding and nonthreatening. We recognized the sentience of our fellow mammals. This understanding grow more profound as my maturity ripens.

Opie was a cuddle bug, & apparently, a boob man.

Sadly, the majority of humans are no where near this level of compassion and empathy. They're stuck in the crusades mentality or in whatever other modality that dictates that MAN REIGNS SUPREME & SCREW EVERYTHING ELSE! I truly believe we have this all wrong. It's a proven fact that people who are cruel to the smaller creatures are also cruel to us larger ones. I was elated to come across Chris Hedges' recent truthdig® article: "All Forms Of Life Are Sacred." You can't love one without loving the others.

The subject of cat rescue came up in a yoga class I taught years ago. The church lady in class said, "We don't care about that stuff here. [yadayada something about the bible]."

"Why?" I asked, trying to speak her language. "Animals are God's creatures and we're supposed to take care of them. Animals have nothing but loving souls."

"No! Animals don't have souls!" she snapped. "Only man was made in the image of God."

Opie also facepalms at the stupid.

I was so dumbfounded and stupefied by her comment that I wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry or walk out of the room. I paced to gather composure. Then, "Well, I think that's all taken too literally, like many things from 'The Good Book'. … Besides, why did Noah build the ark to save the animals? So we'd have something to treat like shit when all was said and done?" …

That's the problem with the human condition. We are so myopic and egocentric, but grandiose about where we think our place is in life. We want things to be easy. We like to condense everything into a tiny, labeled box, so we can put it on a shelf that never gets dusted. How do we know we aren't going about life all wrong? We've been conditioned too long to know otherwise. Suppose our dominance is self-appointed? So what that we walk upright, have opposing thumbs and the power of reasoning and complex communication? Look at how we've trashed our planet and divide our peoples. This was the best we, the grand poohbahs of the universe, could do?

Perhaps we could learn from the animals and humble ourselves a little. We must! Our tiny egos and capacity to hate – something animals do not possess – will do us all in one day. Not even the innocents will be spared.

Until we meet again, my handsome little prince.

All that red-orange! Ginger cats rule!

Want to watch proof of animals' capacity to love and mourn? Watch "Animals Mourning Over The Deaths Of Loved Ones"  compiled by Spirit Science and Metaphysics. Have the tissue paper handy!

* Myers-Briggs test: What is your Myers-Briggs?

 

... But We'll Try Best That We Can To Carry On ...

(Tuesday, July 7, 2015)

This is the most emotionally charged version of Styx's "Come Sail Away" I've ever heard. It struck a vein so deeply I could not stop the flow of bleeding tears.

I was a high-schooler in the last three years of the 1970s. Styx was one of the many bands whose soundtracks filled my reverie – a concert in my head for every occasion. I sought clues in those songs, hoping to end my own struggles in my search for a meaningful life. (I was one of few who had their existential-crisis meltdown before I was old enough to drink legally.)

The course I set sail for back then was rife with a mix of conditions ripe for a perfect storm, which threw me way off course into no-man's land. My endless battles at sea made Jason's battles in "Jason and the Argonauts" look like scenes from Chevy Chase's "Vacation". I'm sure the gifted homeless ex-veteran pianist Donald Gould can relate to my sentiments, and then some.

There's always been a soft spot in my heart for our broken veterans of war. Many of the people I befriended in my early 20s – during my own dance with homelessness – were Vietnam veterans. Some were homeless, others one step away from it. All were mentally and/or physically "damaged". And all had a void in their souls, evidenced by the abyss I saw in their eyes when I caught them drifting off in thought. Also discerned was the deep hurt & betrayal they'd built up after coming home from the war beaten, broken and scarred, only to be rejected and vilified by a seemingly apathetic society. Humans still have not yet discovered the empathy needed to deal with the broken people. We perceive them as weak and we throw them away.

So I got goosebumps as I watched Gould – once a strong marine, now emaciated – give his heart and soul to the music he played so passionately he played on his piano. I lost it immediately upon realizing what song Gould chose to play. "Come Sail Away" was one I could totally relate to. At 51, Gould is old enough to have heard it in its day. I wondered if the song held meaning for him in those innocent days as it did for me.

In my own long and painful journey to the wisdom that maturity brings, I remember clearly the emotions certain songs of my youth evoked. In fact, I found it somewhat therapeutic to listen to those '70s songs. The chronology of my life is meshed within the soundtracks of that musical era. I listen to those songs with wise new ears, trying to pinpoint where it was I lost hope. I try to recapture the spark I lost before the breaking point – before I capsized and lost control.

"Come Sail Away" got heavy play after its 1977 release year on the album "The Grand Illusion". As an invisible sophomore in high school, the song – oh, heck, the whole album – carried me through the choppy waters of high school with its invitation to transcend the daily travails of life and seek that which was greater than ourselves. A drive to and from my high school job was a chance to belt out entire albums with conviction. (Thus, car karaoke was born). I'd sing along loudly, sometimes in awe, sometimes in tears.

Setting sail that first time felt like a challenge we could easily rise to in our vibrant youth. Some of us lost our bearings and got thrown off course for what seemed like a life-time of treading water to stay barely afloat. Some never got back on course. Some perished in their sinking ships. And some of us were lucky enough to jump our sinking ships and emerge with renewed strength. The takeaway here is accepting that we are indeed our own ships' captains. We are the master of our domains. It is only our truths that will steer us if we listen to our internal dead reckoning compass.

The passion with which Donald Gould plays "Come Sail Away" seems to me to be his ode to the acceptance and surrender to life's harsh realities. He's got nothing left to lose, but so much to give the world. So much was taken from him, but his last stand is his inspired musical talent. It's the one thing no one can take from him. His gain is our gain.

I wish Donald Gould the right kind of success during his new-found celebrity. I hope he's not exploited, used up and thrown away by next weekend, when the next "latest internet sensation" materializes. May the wisdom of his songs and his experiences lead him to the peace he seeks and deserves. May his son forgive and embrace him. We should wish this for ourselves, Mr. Gould and every living thing on this planet! Everyone should be allowed the gift of following our own bliss. Safe travels, Mr. Gould. Namasté.

Hey Diddly-ay!

I'll try to write in the blog. I need to keep writing. But much of what I want to say requires anonymity, so we'll see how it goes.