There aren’t too many people that I dislike. Really. I try not to hold grudges and I also try not to stereotype people. But one group of people that I really despise is those that fall under the category of “abusive”. It saddens and angers me that people can be and are abusive towards those weaker than them – be it children, elderly or animals.
My little sister was abused by her biological mother. Thankfully, she was fortunate to be saved and adopted by my mom. However, over the years that she’s been with us (we didn’t get her until she was 7 she’s now 16) she’ll tell us some of the stuff she went through and it just boggles the mind. I can’t comprehend people who treat children like she was treated.
I work for a non-profit organization that advocates for elderly people. Through my job I’ve heard many horror stories about elders being abused by their own family members! Again, I have trouble understanding the how and why of it all.
I just don’t get any of it. But my current “pet peeve” (though it’s much more than that, I just wanted to sneak in some play on words) right now is animal abuse. Let me start with the background story.
Last Thursday, my Jango was attacked by a pit bull. My husband was walking him at 5pm and a pit bull came charging out of a yard and bit Jango on his neck and foot. My husband had to let go of Jango’s leash so that he could get away from the other dog. Thankfully, Jango came running right home (even though it was two streets away) and thank G-d, he wasn’t hit by any cars when he ran across the two streets to get home. My poor baby was bleeding and ran right into his crate as soon as I opened the door. We took him right over to the vet’s and luckily, it wasn’t too bad, though even a week later, the bite marks on his neck are still quite visible. At the vets, he received antibiotics, pain killers and a rabies booster to attend to his physical injuries. However, the psychological damage hasn’t been as easy to “fix”. He now cowers and tries to run from other dogs, when he was once very friendly and eager to meet other dogs.
After we took him to the vets, we reported the attack to the local animal control officer. My husband also went over to the house to give them the vet bill. The man that answered the door said that it was his son’s dog and that he’d give him the bill.
Now fast forward to Saturday afternoon. My husband was out walking Jango (we now both carry a baseball bat with us to protect our baby). Mark recognizes the pit bull that was being walked by a teenager (who is also walking another dog). So Mark calls out to him, “Do you live at 27 Madeup* St?” And the kid answers, “yes”. So Mark asks him, “Where is my money?” And the kid says “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” So Mark says, “Your dog attacked my dog.” And the kid says, “This isn’t my dog – it’s my brother’s.” So Mark leaves it as that and continues around the corner (poor Jango is flipping out wanting to get away from the pit bull, who is not on a leash, but just being led by a harness). However, Mark kept looking back, making sure the pit bull wasn’t going to run after them. Well, that’s when my husband saw it. The dog wasn’t listening to the kid, so the kid bent down and punched the pit bull 3 -4 times in the face!!!! No wonder why the dog was aggressive. When Mark relayed the story to me, I almost cried. That poor dog! So I called up animal control and made another report. I still can’t stop thinking about it. That just sickens me so. I don’t get how anyone can hurt an animal. As upset as I am about the pit bull attacking my baby Jango, I also know it’s not the dog’s fault. It’s the dog’s owners that are to blame. And I knew that way before I heard of him being abused. I’d like to punch the owners, myself. However, it’s not my place – I just need to trust that the dog officer will do his job and hope that karma bites the owner in the @ss real soon!
*Made up street name to protect the very not innocent.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
For the Love of Poop
I constantly am telling my cats, my husband and my dog that they are all lucky that they are so cute. And I mean it. If they weren't, I'm not sure I could deal with "the poop", both figuratively and literally, that they leave for me.
With the cats, the poop problem is mostly figurative. They're pretty good about only pooping in their litter box and I just clean that every day. But what irks me is that they manage to get into everything and destroy it. To them, all that they encounter is viewed as either a scratching post, a toy, or food. My late paternal grandmother's antique chair is torn to shreds - I guess the upholstery is perfect for filing their nails. I know that my trimming of their nails is certainly not their top choice for manicures. The bathroom garbage (which is under the sink behind a childproof (but apparantly not cat proof) door) is their toy of choice. They somehow manage to empty the entire garbage contents and then shred it and kick it around. A few years back some silk flowers were Chino's idea of a gourmet feast (which for days, I was finding yellow petals in his poop). I knew that cats like real flowers and plants, but I had no idea that fake ones had the same appeal. Every day, it's like a game for me - to see if I can guess what the cats got into this time. But like I said, they are cute and loveable and when I look at them, and they climb on me and purr, well, I just can't stay mad.
Next is my husband. I love him to death. He is my soulmate, my best friend, my lover, my rock, and well, a man. His biggest problem is follow-through. He means well, but his male brain gets in the way, and things don't get completed. Our gate ripped off the hinges after a mean wind storm back in November. We went to the store, picked out the right size screws and he attempted to fix the gate. Well, our drill wasn't strong enough and the screws bent and didn't get all the way in. The husband was supposed to borrow a sturdier drill so he could fix it. However, six months later, our gate is still "bungee corded" to the fence. I also love it, when he makes "half the bed". Though I know I should be grateful on the days he remembers to do even that much. I feel bad that I have to "nag" him about things. But when I don't, they either don't get done, or get "half done". But he is very cute and the love of my life. So I just sigh, roll my eyes and move on.
Finally, we have Jango. He is the sweetest dog ever. He is extremely loveable and smart. With him, his poop is definitely literal. On our regular walk this morning, he suddenly assumes the dreaded "poop stance". So I stand and wait for him to get it all out. What has he left me? Extremely loose, hot and smelly poop. I pull out a plastic poop bag and attempt to grab it all up, while holding on to him, making sure he doesn't wander into the street. It was so disgusting and difficult to pick up. I thought I was going to vomit. I somehow managed to get it all and tied up the bag. We contined on our way. When we arrived home, I tossed the bag into the garbage, and that's when I noticed it. I had poop all over my hand! I quickly went into the house, both annoyed and angry. I scrubbed my hands for several minutes. As I was drying them, Jango came up to me and rubbed his head on my leg and looked at me with one beautiful blue and one beautiful brown eye and my heart melted. He's lucky he's so cute.
Life *is* a zoo, but I wouldn't change it for anything. I love my cute cats, husband and dog - poop and all.
With the cats, the poop problem is mostly figurative. They're pretty good about only pooping in their litter box and I just clean that every day. But what irks me is that they manage to get into everything and destroy it. To them, all that they encounter is viewed as either a scratching post, a toy, or food. My late paternal grandmother's antique chair is torn to shreds - I guess the upholstery is perfect for filing their nails. I know that my trimming of their nails is certainly not their top choice for manicures. The bathroom garbage (which is under the sink behind a childproof (but apparantly not cat proof) door) is their toy of choice. They somehow manage to empty the entire garbage contents and then shred it and kick it around. A few years back some silk flowers were Chino's idea of a gourmet feast (which for days, I was finding yellow petals in his poop). I knew that cats like real flowers and plants, but I had no idea that fake ones had the same appeal. Every day, it's like a game for me - to see if I can guess what the cats got into this time. But like I said, they are cute and loveable and when I look at them, and they climb on me and purr, well, I just can't stay mad.
Next is my husband. I love him to death. He is my soulmate, my best friend, my lover, my rock, and well, a man. His biggest problem is follow-through. He means well, but his male brain gets in the way, and things don't get completed. Our gate ripped off the hinges after a mean wind storm back in November. We went to the store, picked out the right size screws and he attempted to fix the gate. Well, our drill wasn't strong enough and the screws bent and didn't get all the way in. The husband was supposed to borrow a sturdier drill so he could fix it. However, six months later, our gate is still "bungee corded" to the fence. I also love it, when he makes "half the bed". Though I know I should be grateful on the days he remembers to do even that much. I feel bad that I have to "nag" him about things. But when I don't, they either don't get done, or get "half done". But he is very cute and the love of my life. So I just sigh, roll my eyes and move on.
Finally, we have Jango. He is the sweetest dog ever. He is extremely loveable and smart. With him, his poop is definitely literal. On our regular walk this morning, he suddenly assumes the dreaded "poop stance". So I stand and wait for him to get it all out. What has he left me? Extremely loose, hot and smelly poop. I pull out a plastic poop bag and attempt to grab it all up, while holding on to him, making sure he doesn't wander into the street. It was so disgusting and difficult to pick up. I thought I was going to vomit. I somehow managed to get it all and tied up the bag. We contined on our way. When we arrived home, I tossed the bag into the garbage, and that's when I noticed it. I had poop all over my hand! I quickly went into the house, both annoyed and angry. I scrubbed my hands for several minutes. As I was drying them, Jango came up to me and rubbed his head on my leg and looked at me with one beautiful blue and one beautiful brown eye and my heart melted. He's lucky he's so cute.
Life *is* a zoo, but I wouldn't change it for anything. I love my cute cats, husband and dog - poop and all.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Auntie Bertha
I need to tell you about my auntie Bertha. My sentences may be terse and my words childish, for as I think about my aunt, I become the carefree small child I was for the majority of our memories together. So please bear with little Abrah and overlook her immature writing skills.
Auntie Bertha was this sweet and kind lady who was married to my uncle Louie. Uncle Louie was my grandma's brother. Auntie Bertha and uncle Louie were like grandparents to me. My grandma and my uncle owned a two family house together. My grandma lived downstairs and auntie Bertha and uncle Louie lived upstairs. When I was little, my mom and I would visit my grandma every week and sleep over (they lived 1 1/2 hours away from us.) Auntie Bertha was a librarian. She would always bring me old children's books that the library no longer needed and tell us stories about her boss, Mr. Menandokos (sp?). She used to wear sneakers, which I thought was funny. I remember having this big red plastic toy car that I would drive around her feet. She (along with my uncle Louie) was extremely loving.
When I was 2 1/2 I was very fortunate that my grandma came and moved in with us. We still visited auntie Bertha and uncle Louie, but more often, they came to our house and slept over. I remember in the morning, auntie Bertha would drink her "eye opener" as she used to refer to her orange juice (or maybe she only did that to try and coax me into drinking my glass of juice.) I also remember her and uncle Louie would put little white balls of "sweetner" in their coffee, from the little bottle my mom kept just for them. I used to think it was funny that they'd call each other "mommy" and "daddy", even though my cousin Stevie, their son, was a year younger than my mom. I remember going on picnics with my parents, my grandma and auntie Bertha and uncle Louie. I also remember calling auntie Bertha "auntie Boo Boo" when I was too young to pronounce "Bertha" and that nickname stayed - it was my special affectionate term for her.
When I was eight, my grandma and uncle sold their house and my aunt and uncle moved to Arizona to be closer to my cousin. I was very sad. I knew I wouldn't see them much. We did talk on the phone and they flew into town for my Bat Mitzvah. But after that I never saw my uncle again. He passed away my sophomore year of high school. Soon after that, auntie Bertha started going downhill and was diagnosed with dementia. Sometimes, I'd call her and she didn't talk - she'd just stay silent on the other end of the phone. Other times, she'd be terse and give the phone back to her caregiver. She did come to town for my high school graduation. By this time, she was wheelchair bound and thin and frail. She was not the same "auntie Boo Boo" that I knew. And she obviously felt the same way about me. Before coming to town, her caregiver showed her a recent picture of me and she told her caregiver that it wasn't me. I think in her memories, I was still that little eight year old girl. I'd like to think that she did know me during that last visit together. I still treasure a photo that my mom took of us then.
For the next two years we spoke on the phone - but again, it was always awkward, she was never with it and it made me sad. However, about a month before she passed away, I spoke to her and right before I hung up, I said "I love you" and I heard her voice crack as she said "I love you too". And for that one moment, my auntie Boo Boo was back. We both had tears in our eyes as we replaced our receivers of our respective phones.
Sadly, on April 30, 1996, auntie Bertha passed away. Today, twelve years later, I still feel sad and still miss her. She was a very special person in my life. I was never able to make it to her or my uncle's funerals, as they were held in Arizona. But I hope one day to make a trip and visit their graves. But until then, they are always in my heart. I feel very fortunate to have had them both in my life.
Auntie Bertha was this sweet and kind lady who was married to my uncle Louie. Uncle Louie was my grandma's brother. Auntie Bertha and uncle Louie were like grandparents to me. My grandma and my uncle owned a two family house together. My grandma lived downstairs and auntie Bertha and uncle Louie lived upstairs. When I was little, my mom and I would visit my grandma every week and sleep over (they lived 1 1/2 hours away from us.) Auntie Bertha was a librarian. She would always bring me old children's books that the library no longer needed and tell us stories about her boss, Mr. Menandokos (sp?). She used to wear sneakers, which I thought was funny. I remember having this big red plastic toy car that I would drive around her feet. She (along with my uncle Louie) was extremely loving.
When I was 2 1/2 I was very fortunate that my grandma came and moved in with us. We still visited auntie Bertha and uncle Louie, but more often, they came to our house and slept over. I remember in the morning, auntie Bertha would drink her "eye opener" as she used to refer to her orange juice (or maybe she only did that to try and coax me into drinking my glass of juice.) I also remember her and uncle Louie would put little white balls of "sweetner" in their coffee, from the little bottle my mom kept just for them. I used to think it was funny that they'd call each other "mommy" and "daddy", even though my cousin Stevie, their son, was a year younger than my mom. I remember going on picnics with my parents, my grandma and auntie Bertha and uncle Louie. I also remember calling auntie Bertha "auntie Boo Boo" when I was too young to pronounce "Bertha" and that nickname stayed - it was my special affectionate term for her.
When I was eight, my grandma and uncle sold their house and my aunt and uncle moved to Arizona to be closer to my cousin. I was very sad. I knew I wouldn't see them much. We did talk on the phone and they flew into town for my Bat Mitzvah. But after that I never saw my uncle again. He passed away my sophomore year of high school. Soon after that, auntie Bertha started going downhill and was diagnosed with dementia. Sometimes, I'd call her and she didn't talk - she'd just stay silent on the other end of the phone. Other times, she'd be terse and give the phone back to her caregiver. She did come to town for my high school graduation. By this time, she was wheelchair bound and thin and frail. She was not the same "auntie Boo Boo" that I knew. And she obviously felt the same way about me. Before coming to town, her caregiver showed her a recent picture of me and she told her caregiver that it wasn't me. I think in her memories, I was still that little eight year old girl. I'd like to think that she did know me during that last visit together. I still treasure a photo that my mom took of us then.
For the next two years we spoke on the phone - but again, it was always awkward, she was never with it and it made me sad. However, about a month before she passed away, I spoke to her and right before I hung up, I said "I love you" and I heard her voice crack as she said "I love you too". And for that one moment, my auntie Boo Boo was back. We both had tears in our eyes as we replaced our receivers of our respective phones.
Sadly, on April 30, 1996, auntie Bertha passed away. Today, twelve years later, I still feel sad and still miss her. She was a very special person in my life. I was never able to make it to her or my uncle's funerals, as they were held in Arizona. But I hope one day to make a trip and visit their graves. But until then, they are always in my heart. I feel very fortunate to have had them both in my life.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Introduction...
Since "everyone else has one", I've decided to conform and start my own blog. I may not always have witty thoughts or clever prose to write, but I am a firm believer in therapeutic writing. So I'd like to thank in advance, those of you willing to subject yourself to what may be at times extremely boring context. At best, I hope to every once in a while make you chuckle - even if you're laughing at me and not with me.
So far, my week has been quite ordinary and boring (I warned you). The highlight of my week happened this past Saturday morning around 7 AM. My husband and I just adopted the most beautiful Siberian Husky a little less than 2 weeks ago. Jango Fett (named by my husband from the character in Star Wars) is 2 years old and well, the poor guy had not been neutered. So Friday, I dropped off my boy to, well, have his balls cut off. While doing pre-op blood work, they noticed some of his levels were really off the charts. They suspected possible kidney trouble (which I'm happy to report turned out to only be a bladder infection.) Anyhow, in order to truly determine what the problem was, the vet told me that we had to bring in a urine sample (I have no idea why they didn't just catherize him while they had him under anesthesia). So Saturday morning, my husband and I set out to get a urine sample from our 50 lb dog. I already knew this wasn't going to be easy. Seriously, when I go for my yearly "oil change and tire rotation" as I affectionately refer to it, and the nurse hands me a teeny tiny cup to pee into, well, lets just say it's not without great effort, followed by lots of hand washing that I am able to give them a full cup. And I know what's going on, tend to have pretty good aim if I do say so myself, and I have control over my bladder. So, there we are at 7AM on a Saturday morning with Jango, following him around with a disposable lasagna pan (thank you kind lady from the vet's waiting room who gave me the idea) waiting for him to lift his leg. We followed him from bush, to fire hydrant to tree, to street light and back to a bush. As soon as that leg lifted, I cheered my husband on (come on, what good is having a husband if not to do the "icky" jobs ) as he shoved the pan under the dog and retrieved the specimen. He then handed me the pan and I carefully transfered the urine into the tiny vial that was provided. As my husband went to wash off his urine covered hands, I carefully placed the vial into a zip lock bag and then put that in our fridge, until I could deliver it later that morning. I'm sad to report, that so far, this was really the highlight of my week. Stay tuned, though. After all, life is a zoo.
So far, my week has been quite ordinary and boring (I warned you). The highlight of my week happened this past Saturday morning around 7 AM. My husband and I just adopted the most beautiful Siberian Husky a little less than 2 weeks ago. Jango Fett (named by my husband from the character in Star Wars) is 2 years old and well, the poor guy had not been neutered. So Friday, I dropped off my boy to, well, have his balls cut off. While doing pre-op blood work, they noticed some of his levels were really off the charts. They suspected possible kidney trouble (which I'm happy to report turned out to only be a bladder infection.) Anyhow, in order to truly determine what the problem was, the vet told me that we had to bring in a urine sample (I have no idea why they didn't just catherize him while they had him under anesthesia). So Saturday morning, my husband and I set out to get a urine sample from our 50 lb dog. I already knew this wasn't going to be easy. Seriously, when I go for my yearly "oil change and tire rotation" as I affectionately refer to it, and the nurse hands me a teeny tiny cup to pee into, well, lets just say it's not without great effort, followed by lots of hand washing that I am able to give them a full cup. And I know what's going on, tend to have pretty good aim if I do say so myself, and I have control over my bladder. So, there we are at 7AM on a Saturday morning with Jango, following him around with a disposable lasagna pan (thank you kind lady from the vet's waiting room who gave me the idea) waiting for him to lift his leg. We followed him from bush, to fire hydrant to tree, to street light and back to a bush. As soon as that leg lifted, I cheered my husband on (come on, what good is having a husband if not to do the "icky" jobs ) as he shoved the pan under the dog and retrieved the specimen. He then handed me the pan and I carefully transfered the urine into the tiny vial that was provided. As my husband went to wash off his urine covered hands, I carefully placed the vial into a zip lock bag and then put that in our fridge, until I could deliver it later that morning. I'm sad to report, that so far, this was really the highlight of my week. Stay tuned, though. After all, life is a zoo.
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