Never get mad while you’re drinking, never drink while you’re writing and for the love of dog, don’t ever get drunk, get pissed, and sit down to write. I need a drink, but to save my spell check some grief I’ll forgo getting fogged right now, and just stick to writing, and anger. We’re no strangers, anger and I, and in the past regret has always been a close companion to anger, and at this time I can see where something I am going to write is going to make me sorry I wrote it.
Regrettably, that has never stopped me before, and will not now.
I don’t have a family. I have a pack. I have three dogs. I do have two sisters a mom and a dad, but unlike everyone else I’m related to, I don’t hang out with these people except for two or three times a year. We’ve been doing it like this since I left home in my late teens and we’ll keep doing it this way, I suspect, until someone is dead. I do not grok the human beings. As a species, I do not trust them. On occasion, they stop what they are doing and they go to killing one another with such intensity there isn’t any stopping them. Africa is a bad place for humans and other living creatures right now, and Libya, who is also in Africa, but it is in the part that has oil so it counts, is going to be messy for quite some time to come, and American interests somehow lie there, but that’s another issue for another day. Libya dismays me but I am a student of history and war has followed us around since we learned how to throw rocks.
Kisha Curtis, however, just plain pisses me off.
Have you seen the photos of Patrick, the part Pibble who was starved to within an inch of his life, and then tossed down a garbage chute, twenty two stories of it, and left for dead in a plastic garbage bag? Someone noticed the bag moved, looked inside, and there was what was left of a dog. Within hours of death, they took this dog, who became known as Patrick, to a vet, and suddenly, the humans rose to save him. There are good people, nice people, kind people, mutt people, dog people, and they saved him. His former owner, is Kisha Curtis, who is either, according to what story you read, a hooker or a stripper or maybe both, or neither, but she has some explaining to do. Patrick was her dog, and he looks like a world of hell.
Someone dumped a little black puppy out near my home and by the time Bert found him it was nearly, so very nearly, too late. Everything, all that I could do, everything within my power was almost not enough. This dog sat at Death’s feet for the better part of a day before joining Bert and myself, and then, even then it was a near thing. Sam is damaged. He is beyond my repair emotionally. Sam is a mess, psychologically speaking, and I came damn close to losing a thumb when Sam when over the edge early one morning and I am lucky not to have lost Lucas that morning, because Sam attacked him.
Starvation is a bit more than just being hungry. It destroys the mind’s ability to reason. Compassion is damaged. The ability to see the world in anything than a sharply contrasting universe of pure black and pure white is compromised. Sam kills things because he sees those things as threats to me, to the food bowl, and to the home. Sam is locked, loaded and ready to shake to death anything he thinks might be a threat. Kisha Curtis did a lot more than torment Patrick. Kisha Curtis did a lot more than hurt him or try to kill Patrick. She broke him in a way that matters, that really matters, and I have no idea what to tell the people trying to fix him. It’s been nearly a decade now, and Sam is not right. He will die this way. Kisha Curtis did this to Patrick, and it enrages me.
I won’t act on rage. I refuse to become part of the problem. I have mutts to raise. I have a woman I love. I have things that need to be written yet. Kisha Curtis is not going to hijack my life and make me hate her. I’ve got better things to do. I can get past this. I can stop being angry. I cannot give into the idea that my skill with a keyboard ought to ruin Kisha Curtis’ life, but trust me, I truly and honestly believe that I went after her, and meant it, I could bring that bitch down, and hard. Last night I headed in that direction.
But what good would it do me, or Patrick?
I have instead decided to do something totally different this time around. When I finally got Sam strong enough to stand on his own, I went on a witch hunt, no offense to Wiccans, but I was trying to find the person, or the people, who had hurt Sam, and I was going to…. What? What was I going to do? Shoot them? Scream? Kidnap them, chain them to a tree in the woods and leave them to die slow, knowing no one would or could, help them, and knowing that it would end, and end in death?
But what good would it do me? Or Sam?
Kisha Curtis, I have no idea who you are. I know nothing about you. I only know you from what the news tells me about you, and about your Face Book page, which doesn’t help me understand you. I don’t have a family. I have a pack. I do not understand you, or your kind, but there is something I do know. What I do know is when you let go of Patrick’s body, and it slid down that chute, part of your soul went with it. Part of you died slow as Patrick starved. A piece of your soul is missing, and will never come back until you realize what you have done, and it may kill you when you do become aware.
If you only had a dog to help you through this, Kisha, you would learn unconditional love.
I can cry for you, for you will never, ever, know what you threw away when you let your soul go down a garbage chute.
Take Care, please,