Every Little Bit
Wow. Okay. That's . . . unexpected.
Y'all remember back in September when I was dealing with the crazy cat lady and her complete insanity, yes?
I've been keeping an eye on her. On one of my walks about two months ago I found her car in a different neighborhood, not far from the cat house, so I know where her "real" base of operations is. I've been watching the cat property, and the one time I caught her putting food out again I called Animal Control and gave them her real address. It stopped real quick after that. I guess knowing that Animal Control had somehow obtained her real address spooked her.
Stalkerish? No. Just dumb luck, and an inability to forget the creaking cries of a dying kitten as I held him in my hands.
At the time, when Animal Control weren't acting fast enough to suit me, I contacted a local news station through their community action line and asked if they would please look into it. I forgot about it completely until . . . well, until Channel 2 called me today.
I explained the whole thing over again, completely appalled the woman on the other end of the phone, and got a follow up call less than a half hour later. They've spoken to the SPCA cruelty investigator, who is sending someone out to contact the woman.
It's doubtful that they can really do anything legal to her at this point; any cats she has, she is keeping indoors where they can't be seen (though they can be smelled, to me anyway). However, it's still possible that having the SPCA sniffing around her doorstep will put the fear into her, and it also means that there's a chance that the SPCA rep will get a load of how cricket-shit fucking crazy she is and perhaps weigh that against her in the future, should she relapse.
I'm not tremendously hopeful she'll wind up fined into a greasy spot, as she so richly deserves, but I'm fairly certain that by prolonging this and staying on her ass about it, I'm making her life uncomfortable. Paranoid types hate being watched. Hate it. I should know, since I've got a fair amount of latent crazy, myself.
Every once in a while I'll catch myself doing the mental math for Joey, that ill-fated little scrap of fur, checking to see how old he would be. About twenty weeks old by now. He'd have finished up his kitten shots by now. Twenty-week-old cats are almost real cats, just a little gangly and dopey, and generally annoying. I'd give an awful lot to see him at the clumsy, stupid worst.
I try very hard not to think about what I wanted for him, because the hope I had makes thinking of what happened unbearable. But I do still think about it, and then I have to desperately cuddle my own cats because it's the only thing that stops the pain.
I wish I had pictures of him, even though he looked terrible, even all cleaned up. Under all that nastiness, he had such a sweet, funny little face. Whenever I feel like forgetting about it, letting it go, I think of that poor face, blind and afraid. Whatever is done to punish that woman, it's not enough.
I truly wish I had a flaming sword, but I'm not an avenging angel. Just a stubborn, stubborn bitch.
Y'all remember back in September when I was dealing with the crazy cat lady and her complete insanity, yes?
I've been keeping an eye on her. On one of my walks about two months ago I found her car in a different neighborhood, not far from the cat house, so I know where her "real" base of operations is. I've been watching the cat property, and the one time I caught her putting food out again I called Animal Control and gave them her real address. It stopped real quick after that. I guess knowing that Animal Control had somehow obtained her real address spooked her.
Stalkerish? No. Just dumb luck, and an inability to forget the creaking cries of a dying kitten as I held him in my hands.
At the time, when Animal Control weren't acting fast enough to suit me, I contacted a local news station through their community action line and asked if they would please look into it. I forgot about it completely until . . . well, until Channel 2 called me today.
I explained the whole thing over again, completely appalled the woman on the other end of the phone, and got a follow up call less than a half hour later. They've spoken to the SPCA cruelty investigator, who is sending someone out to contact the woman.
It's doubtful that they can really do anything legal to her at this point; any cats she has, she is keeping indoors where they can't be seen (though they can be smelled, to me anyway). However, it's still possible that having the SPCA sniffing around her doorstep will put the fear into her, and it also means that there's a chance that the SPCA rep will get a load of how cricket-shit fucking crazy she is and perhaps weigh that against her in the future, should she relapse.
I'm not tremendously hopeful she'll wind up fined into a greasy spot, as she so richly deserves, but I'm fairly certain that by prolonging this and staying on her ass about it, I'm making her life uncomfortable. Paranoid types hate being watched. Hate it. I should know, since I've got a fair amount of latent crazy, myself.
Every once in a while I'll catch myself doing the mental math for Joey, that ill-fated little scrap of fur, checking to see how old he would be. About twenty weeks old by now. He'd have finished up his kitten shots by now. Twenty-week-old cats are almost real cats, just a little gangly and dopey, and generally annoying. I'd give an awful lot to see him at the clumsy, stupid worst.
I try very hard not to think about what I wanted for him, because the hope I had makes thinking of what happened unbearable. But I do still think about it, and then I have to desperately cuddle my own cats because it's the only thing that stops the pain.
I wish I had pictures of him, even though he looked terrible, even all cleaned up. Under all that nastiness, he had such a sweet, funny little face. Whenever I feel like forgetting about it, letting it go, I think of that poor face, blind and afraid. Whatever is done to punish that woman, it's not enough.
I truly wish I had a flaming sword, but I'm not an avenging angel. Just a stubborn, stubborn bitch.