Goodbye, my love

This is my favorite and best cat Fuzzy. The last time I saw him was May 14. The picture was shot at 3:40 a.m. February 5, 2014. It was about eight degrees outside. He was inside for three or four minutes to get a snack. Although there was no sign of life outside, he had to go on patrol to protect his home and me—focused and indestructible.

He was snatched from his home by the anorexic, psychotic girl next door whose family of four and team of helpers previously dumped 50-70 cats and dogs they’d methodically starved and tortured at my front door to create a nuisance while the executor and trustee worked out looting the trust.

The executor, my stepmother, paid them to do it. For the fun of it and for a little money, skin-and-bones lured and enticed Fuzzy for months to win his trust with the idea she’d take him upon command. The gesture sends a message of hate and death from my stepmother to me. Fuzzy’s abduction was accompanied by Skeleton Girl’s dumping two starved kittens. At least one escaped. It was captured by neighbors and given to the shelter. I identified the poor baby as a dump animal. The officer said they would put groceries into it.

After all, how dare I object to being robbed and to numerous attempts to murder me? After all, isn’t the law one billion percent out of my corner? Well, of course. Judging from the cat bandits’ previous stunts, surely dear Fuzzy was badly hurt before he was killed. I told the girl next door I want him back, and she just smiled and said she knew nothing about it. This is my fault. I’ve been too complacent to hatefully and brutally grease the blood-drinking ghouls responsible as anyone else would have, thinking an imaginary legal process might quiet this trouble.

I scooped up Fuzzy and his brother Woozy five weeks after they were born under a house behind mine. They were six inches long and world-class jingle ballers. I kept them indoors almost four months until I could have them fixed and vaccinated, then took them outside. The dogs and cats in the neighborhood came forward to greet them—so sweet and poignant. They trembled. I set them on the ground, one then the other. After a couple minutes, they didn’t want to go indoors and wouldn’t except it’s where I fed them. They lived as feral cats and thrived in this rugged, challenging environment.

From the first few days they could consume pounds of turkey I gladly cooked. At four, the boys could finish half a 16-lb. turkey by themselves in a single evening. Plenty to eat and regular meat entrees made them big, healthy and strong—and happy.

I reassured sad and frightened Fuzzy and Woozy when their mother abandoned them that it’s nature’s way, happens to all of us, that I’d never leave them, would care for them always, and be better than a cat mother. My twin boys turned nine years old this month. There were no disorders on their annual exam reports last month. They are perfect specimens. They are loyal companions who always come when I call them, and don’t roam far. The three of us have been very close; for me, I’ve been no closer to any sentient beings. I’ve tended them to the exclusion of most other things.

The only time Fuzzy went missing was 1½ years ago when my cat-snatching neighbor’s father took him to the shelter to be euthanized. They gave him the first shot because he was screaming at the top of his lungs, scanned him and he was returned. The shelter called my stepmother before calling me, which is odd. I set him on the bed to recover. He peed on the mattress in his sleep, and I didn’t find it for hours. With what I spent to fix and vaccinate three of these monsters’ dump animals and buy a new mattress, the venomous raptors cost me $1,200.00 that month.

I was so glad to have him with me. I’ve loved Fuzzy more than almost any person I’ve known, and I’m 60 years old. The animal dump family stopped unloading starved, frightened cats when I took the last four dump animals to the shelter and told the neighbors I knew they were doing it deliberately, were paid to do it and had a team helping them. So, now they’re back in action: boy, thank goodness.

Combined with my documented poisoning eight or nine times between January 1 and April 30, I wrote that 99% of all people would have snapped long ago having swallowed a tiny fraction of the endless stream of grief flowing from my stepmother to me. I learned long ago not to snap. That’s why I have this trouble today.

The law certainly expects me to lie still, to be robbed and, if necessary, to be killed. To do what it takes to preserve my life is to make a date with Old Sparky. A lady told me to pray! The Bible says to turn the other cheek. It’s easy to ignore all this and think it doesn’t matter. Certainly to God and the big picture, everything about us doesn’t matter at all. I’ve begged God to speak to me and give me ears to hear Him. He spoke not. Finally, my mother, lost 20 years next month, and great grandmother Elsie, who provided the oil lease royalty I don’t get, spoke and said, “Why haven’t you exterminated these horrible people, stupid? They are going to kill you, too.” Yeah, I know. I’ve had more than enough punishment without that.

Woozy is again sad and frightened. In two days Fuzzy will have been gone two weeks. I know cats go out and may never return. The animal control officer offered to write me a citation for violating our cats-at-large, or “cat leash” ordinance. Woozy is traumatized and gloomy without his brother. Fuzzy wasn’t hit by a car or taken by a wild animal. Blood-drinking killers took him for fun and money. I love him as much as my child.

If someone tells you they want to set up a trust for you, do yourself a favor. Save yourself a lot of time, anguish, theft and from being murdered. Draw your piece and make sure you hit them right between the eyes. Be encouraged. I’m very sad. I will never forget you and will always miss you, Fuzzy. Goodbye, my love.