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 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:
#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.
(copyright 2008 by aisling)
In one of my blogs, but I'm not going fishing to find out which one, I started the story of the day the psycho-chick showed up in 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 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 knew 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.
Update 20 May 2009: The psycho-chick is not in jail, though I had been told she was (for drug dealing, I presume). She still likes to verbally taunt me when she drives by me in her convertible.
Shiloh was born on August 7, 1992. She would have been 16 in August, if she'd made it. But Shirley Temple at the DMH, who pretended to be my pal and to understand how much I needed the animals and to be putting them in foster care and 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 didn't put the tag commitable on this post. Someone else did that.
Did the FBI 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 believed anything was possible on the part of the feds, as they seem to have unlimited license to do anything they choose.
(this below is from April 2008)
This chick was classically psychotic. Her face muscles twitched spastically, she tossed her arms around in demented fashion, she lied 24/7, she could not talk, she had to shriek, she was an alcoholic, sold, and presumably used, drugs. She intimidated her pansy-assed boyfriend as relentlessy as she intimidated me, and why he stayed 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.
Well, more on psycho-chick another time.
