Your Disabled Chicken, Part 5: Turmeric The Miracle Spice

Normally, I do not pass on information about disabled animals unless I've tried it, but I don't currently have turmeric, and when I get some, I will let everyone know what happened. But I wanted to share this, as soon as possible, so that others could help their chickens. 

I have a disabled chicken, Antonia (who sometimes crows, or rather roars, so I suspect "she" is actually a trans-rooster), whose feet are crippled up, but who is very active, nonetheless. He lives in his own house at night, and is out in our front during the day (unless it is cold, in which case he does not want to go out). I find him everywhere in the yard: Under the front deck, in the shade of the butterfly bushes, even on our sidewalk (which is about five inches high; it's quite a feat for her to get up there, but she does it!).
I have done a series on how to take care of a disabled chicken here, here, here, and here, And I recently discovered something else which I hope will help my chicken, especially with her/his feet. Maybe it won't cure her, but I hope it will help. And when I can get the stuff, I will try it.

I was reading a blog today by a nice lesbian couple in South Africa, who write about minimalism. They are also vegan, and like to write about that. Apparently, the best natural anti-inflammatory is ground black pepper and turmeric mixed with water. I got excited, wondering if I could feed turmeric to a chicken, for her joints. Apparently, you can, and it's very good for them in treating joint inflammation, bumblefoot infection (where their feet get swollen; Antonia had this once, and it went away almost by itself, before I knew what it was and started treating it with iodine; I suspect it was her good diet), and a host of other ailments, including a paralyzed neck (wry neck, which I suspect another, "paralyzed" chicken that I had, had gotten somehow; perhaps he would not have had to live in a box in my room for a few weeks until his death, if I had known about turmeric!).

I can't go to the store and get turmeric, right away, and I could not find it in my house, even though I thought I had it. The pepper gave me pause, though, because I was afraid it was spicy, and I don't want to cause my chickens pain. But I had ground black pepper on hand, so I decided to try the pepper part out on myself first.
If it makes a difference, the pepper I had was not freshly ground; it came already ground, and the expiration date is October 22, 2017. So it is not stale, but it's not fresh, either.
I mixed up a little in a small glass of water. I didn't measure it, though I suspect it was about the right (human) dosage according to Angela Horn's blog, half a teaspoon.
My mom says that the best way to get drunk without tasting the beer is to take a deep breath right before drinking, drink as much as possible, then let out your breath after swallowing. (This was from her partying days when she was younger.) So I did that. And yes, there was some spiciness in the back of my throat. So I don't know if I will feed my chicken pepper. I suspect that turmeric might be a little spicy, but I can't imagine it being as spicy as the pepper.
I did not notice any anti-inflammatory effects right away, from the pepper alone. I guess the pepper is mostly there to help one absorb the nutrients in the turmeric. The pepper did make my face a little flush, for a second, though not nearly as much as taking niacin supplements does.
(I take a lot of niacin for menstrual cramps, and it works wonders! If your face is flush, you're doing it right. I suspect that it pulls the excess water out of my system, so I'm not retaining it.)

I also saw this story about the wonders of turmeric, in treating a chicken with a paralyzed neck, and I thought I would share it. And I wanted to share it before I forgot to.
I'll let everyone know if there are any dramatic effects for my disabled chicken. I don't expect that it will cure her (it might have if I had known about it when her feet first started giving her trouble--who knows?), but hopefully it will help her. I don't know how long it will need to take full effect, though. I plan to put some on her food, about half a teaspoon a day (since s/he is a big chicken), as per the instructions on this natural chicken care blog. And even if I don't notice a change, maybe it will make her feel better, at least, even if I can't see it. In any case, it doesn't seem like it will hurt her, so I will throw everything I can at the problem, like I always do. :)

Your Disabled Chicken, Part 4: Warm In Winter And Cool In Summer

This is how I take care of my disabled chicken, Antonia. There may be a Part Five in the series, if I think of anything else (for example, mites), but there's not much more I can think of, that is different than caring for able-bodied chickens. Click here and here and here for the previous three chapters in this series, in which I talk about believing in your birdie, food and water, and carrying them comfortably and miscellaneous other things.



For the summer, I use:

Frozen gallon/liter water jugs (or large old soda jugs filled with water; lay them next to her, not too close, not too far--test it with your hand)

Ice cubes in her water, one or two when it's very hot.

Multiple water dishes (so she can walk to another if she spills one with her foot, which she often does).

Shade: She has lots of trees in her yard, and I often put her in the shade, too, unless she walks there herself.

Dirt: She has some dirt to take dirt baths, if she wants them.

Pouring water on her head and body/dunking her belly in water, if it's really hot. She hates this, but it makes me feel much better about how she's doing. (I used to dip my rabbits, when I had them, in shallow pans of water I left in their yard for them, so that their feet and bellies got wet. They hated me. But I loved them, which is why I did it.)

Cool water from the house, every time I check on her--I bring my own water bottle, and pour the "old" water out, because it gets hot.



You should always have pans of water out for your chickens (or other small animals), disabled or not, in hot weather. I had a hen that died, before I knew to put pans out, because her babies could wade in the water dish, and she was too big. It is also vitally important to keep them hydrated in the summer. I check her two or three times throughout the day, especially in very hot weather.
I use the frozen water jugs for my two guinea pigs too, since they have a sheltered cage outside. I put one in the middle of their cage, so they each have a side, and they get as close to or far away from it as they like (just be sure the frozen water jug doesn't have a label on it, or they'll try to eat it). It's a little trickier for a disabled chicken, though, who isn't as mobile and can't just come back if she wanders away, but it does help her. Be sure she is settled down, before deciding where to place it and giving her food and water.



In winter:


Lamps: She has an old lamp, just with a plain light bulb, that I turn on when it's cold (it's still cold sometimes, in March, and in Oregon).

Insulation: Her dog kennel has holes in the sides, so I use thick rubber mats, cut to the right size, to insulate one side (so she still gets light in the mornings) and up to three sides, if it's really cold.

Sweaters: I made her a vest from felt and velcro, once, but had better luck with a "medium" (according the package) sized dog sweater (since she's a big chicken) from Wal-Mart, which I found on clearance for $5.00. I cut both the arm-holes bigger, on two sides each, to accommodate her wings.

Dry bedding--don't let their hay get wet. They will get colder.

Warm water and food from the house--with microwaved hot water, if needed (mix the hot water with room-temperature water and their dry food, and test the temperature with your finger). I at least bring her new water from the house whenever I feed her, because it gets cold, just sitting outside, and I'm afraid she won't drink it if it's too cold or too hot.



If I have the lamp on, she doesn't need anything else, most days. I have also placed one or two old t-shirts over her like a blanket (shirts I don't mind having pooped on and throwing away), when I didn't have a sweater for her. I've buried her in hay, too, with only her head sticking out. It helps to give them lots of protein and fat in the winter, so that they can keep warm. (See Part Two, Feeding And Watering.)
Here's a sweater pattern for those who knit, and here's an image of an easy pattern, that you can cut out of felt or other warm materials:

The sites say that they are "for bald chickens," but I think a chicken that cannot be as active as other chickens would need one too. I would recommend the dog sweater, though, as my disabled chicken got tangled up in the vest I cut out for her.

Your Disabled Chicken, Part 3: How To Carry Them Comfortably, And Miscellaneous Other Things

This series is about how I care for my disabled chicken, Antonia, and how you can do the same for your disabled chicken or birdie:

Here is Part One: Believe In Your Birdie, and Part Two: Feeding And Watering.

Carrying:

Put one hand under the front of their belly, the other under the back of their belly. Support all of their body, and hold their body close to you, especially if they flap and try to get away. This will comfort them and calm them down.
Do not be afraid to put your hand under their backside. I have never been pooped on, doing this. Even if I were, I still don't want to stress her out, as I used to before I discovered this method of carrying her. I have been picked up in a way that scared me, as a child, and I wouldn't wish that on anyone or anything.
Yes, there is some dried-on poop under her backside, but that is common to all chickens, pretty much, and you should always wash your hands after handling a chicken, anyway. 


 This is the INCORRECT way to pick them up and handle them:

Notice where my thumbs are. I am pretending to pick her up underneath her wings, only supporting her on the front of her body. She used to hate this, before I discovered the other way. She was not supported properly, she was uncomfortable, and she did not feel safe--she felt like I would drop her. I've felt, as a child, that my bullying uncle would literally drop me on my head, and I still get stressed out just thinking about it. So I would never want to do that to my precious pet chicken.

Here is the CORRECT way to pick her up and hold her:

 Notice where my hands are now. I am supporting both ends of her body (you cannot see my right hand in the second picture, but it is behind her legs and underneath her butt), so that she feels more secure, and all of her weight isn't on her front.
In the second picture, I am holding her against my body. This is not strictly necessary, since she is now used to being picked up by me, but she still sometimes freaks out and starts flapping her wings (especially if I have to get her from under the front deck). And I also feel better, knowing that I'm less likely to drop her (I haven't dropped her yet).
If they start to freak out and flap, put them down for a moment if you can and talk softly to them. You are more likely to drop them if you are being slapped in the face with their wings, so please take care of yourself and hold them against your body.


Talking To Them:

Talk in a happy but soothing voice to them. I used to talk in an excited, high-pitched voice to Antonia, but I realized that that scared her, and now she does not run away from me as much.
Tell them how much you love them and that they have worth. Everyone needs to hear that, and I believe that even if they don't understand your words, they will understand the emotion behind them. If you lose patience and cry or yell at them, as sometimes happens in the first stages of their disability, apologize and assure them that you love them, that you aren't mad at them, that this isn't their fault, and that they're still going to have a very good life, and that they'll get as much care as they need.


Moving Them Backwards In Their Cage:

Sometimes I have to move Antonia back or over in her kennel, so that I have room for her dinner or breakfast dishes. I put my hand under her chest, and gently push her back or move her over. Sometimes I have to do this multiple times. I hate having to do this, as it takes a moment for her to get her balance and get settled in the new position, but sometimes it has to be done. Be careful how fast or hard you move them. Do what you need to do, but have empathy for their struggle to gain their balance! :)

Dry Hay: 

Antonia needs a little hay added to her cage (a large dog kennel) every few days, or whenever it becomes wet. She accidentally knocks all of her water dishes over, moving around at night, and so I have to pay attention to that. Feel the hay with your fingers, and if it feels wet, they need another layer--it doesn't have to be a lot, just enough to keep the moisture away from their feet and legs and keep them comfortable (and in the winter, warm). If there's a wet or soiled spot, cover that too. I have a plastic tote on my porch, in which I keep some hay from the barn, for convenience in helping Antonia and the guinea pigs.  I don't have to go all the way to the barn, this way, when giving her dry bedding.
Changing her bedding is a real pain in the ass if you do it all at once, but you can do it in layers, taking some off the top and covering it back over with enough dry hay to keep her dry. You can do a little each day, over a few days, until you get to the bottom, when you pour the excess water out, rinse it out with the water hose if you can, and add lots of fresh hay. The smell will be bad, but it's better than the stinky hay piling up, and her having difficulty getting in and out of their cage, with her disability.
I don't change her hay as often as I probably should, but I make sure that it is dry and doesn't stink that badly, and that it doesn't pile up so that she has difficulty getting in and out.


Cats, Dogs, And Other Animals: 

Our dogs are not allowed in her yard without supervision, even though they are well-trained and I don't believe they would bother her. I'm not taking any chances. They would be too rough to play with her, even if they were small (which they are definitely not).
Our cats come and go as they please, and they don't bother her. She is as big as they are, bigger in some cases. And if they get too close, she bites them (I'm so proud that she's so assertive!). She's just a part of the landscape to them now.
But smaller chickens might need more protection, especially if your cats like to hunt, if they're new cats, or if they're not used to seeing her up by your house--or if you have hawks or other predators. You can create a small covered yard for her by pounding some re-bar into the ground with a hammer and covering the top and sides with chicken wire, securing it all with plastic zip-ties. My mom and I have done this for rabbits before, but I would recommend wire, and not any kind of plastic mesh, or you might have tragic results.


Companion Birds:

 Disabled chickens are in no danger if they have a companion chicken who is smaller than they are. For a while, Antonia had a teeny little Banty roommate, An-tiny-a, until An-tiny-a died (she was not very active before, so something was wrong, and she died young; I would have given her supplements if I had known she was sickly). So please understand that tiny chickens can sometimes be sickly.
I don't see why other breeds of birds can't live with your disabled chicken, if they are smaller, and naturally mellow and non-aggressive. I once had a duck named Bessie who slept in the coop with our other chickens. She wasn't a very good duck, though, because she ran away with a wild male duck and never came back. So if you want the chicken to have smaller companions (which would be good for her, if you can manage it), please know that these companions might come and go.

In Part Four, the last in the series unless someone has questions or I think of something else that would be helpful, I will talk about how to keep your chicken warm in winter and cool in summer.

Your Disabled Chicken, Part 2: Feeding And Watering

This series is about what I've learned caring for my disabled chicken, Antonia, over the few years. Stay tuned for the rest of the series, and check out Part One here, for the most important thing you can do for your birdie and yourself.

Feeding:

 I feed Antonia the following foods:

dry cat food (always with water added, like cereal, since she can't drink water any time she wants, and so she is in danger of being dehydrated; it's kitten food, whenever I can feed her kitten food, because I suspect kitten food has extra supplements and vitamins added)

raw hamburger (pinch it up into smaller pieces, since the big blob might be dropped and out of reach or dirty)

raw eggs (see below for how to crack them so they're like a miniature soup bowl, then nest the bowl in the watered-down cat food; yes, it will probably run out, but it also gives the cat food more protein)

raw lettuce or spinach (minced fine with a large knife; she has a beak, and it's hard for chickens to tear things)

dry chicken food (when my sometimes-finicky chicken eats it, and only with water added so it's a runny porridge; add a lot of water, since it absorbs water very fast)

Vienna sausages (very cheap, soft source of protein; yes, it contains chicken, but they're easy to eat, she loves them, and she apparently thrives on cannibalism). Update: Libby's is the only brand I have found, that has no corn syrup in their sausages. I don't want her eating corn syrup, or any other kind of sugar, in case the extra sugar inflames her already-disabled joints, so I read the labels and pay a few cents more for Libby's brand. I drain the chicken broth out for my cats, though.

hamburger grease from my cooking

yogurt (until recently, since she used to like it, but now doesn't seem to)

shredded cheese (always shredded, easier to eat with a beak)

slightly mashed banana (only as an occasional treat, and always with some protein (not just cat food), since it contains natural sugar, which might make any inflammation worse)

steamed vegetables from our own table (mash them with your fingers; canned vegetables work too; nothing that is sweet, like peas, tomatoes, or corn, because they don't need the natural sugar, which could harm them)

cream cheese, when I have it 

occasionally, a little grass or an ant that she eats herself (beaks are hard to use for tearing, but she does sometimes use them on the grass)


It is VITALLY important that they not have junk food, or foods that are hard to eat with a beak or without much mobility. They are not able to be as active as other chickens, they are not able to get their own food, for the most part, and they are much more dependent on you to supply them a healthy diet. 
I had to explain to my mom, once, why I didn't want Antonia to have cold french fries: 1) She is affected much worse by junk food than non-disabled chickens; 2) for the most part, she can't go and get her own, healthier foods in nature, to balance the junk food; 3) she can't have old foods, since the other chickens can just walk away, if the food is bad for them--but she can't; 4) cold potatoes are too big and hard to tear with a beak--she will exhaust herself before she gets much food at all; 5) potatoes are starchy and sugary, which is bad for anyone, and processed french fries contain oils and additives, which are very bad news for anyone.
Our other chickens are fed anything that we have left over, since they are more independent and active, but I am very protective about Antonia's diet. She is my baby, my precious pet. She gets what I eat, as long it's nutritious and soft and not likely to choke her.

In the morning, when I'm still waking up and low on energy, I feed her dry cat or kitten food, with enough water added to soak the bits to their full size. I always give her water with meals. Later in the day, I give her more water and a snack of something else. At night, when putting her to bed, I give her water, cat-food cereal, and one other thing, balancing the meat, egg, or cheese protein with a veggie or minced lettuce, if I can. Often I can't, or don't have time, but I do what I can for her.

How to crack a raw egg for them:

I picked the piece of shell out of the egg before giving it to her. I gave her watered cat food too, to hold the egg in place. There is also a Vienna sausage and a little lettuce in the bowl, left over from her lunch that day. You can kind of see what is wrong with her toes; they grew that way, somehow. So she just lives the most happy, healthy, and active life that she can--the best life I can give her.

Water--I use:

multiple water dishes

a no-tip bowl

water at every meal, sometimes more often



I feed/water her at least twice a day, three times or more if I can, especially if it's very hot.
You can see in the pictures above that she has multiple water dishes in her cage. She also has a small water dish that hangs on the door to her cage.
When I let her out in the mornings (and put her out if it's a nice warm day and she would love the sunshine anyway--though she can put herself out), I give her food and water, and put out the other two water dishes (from her cage) where I think she will walk. She also has a few bigger water dishes (but shallow enough so she can drink from them) spread around her yard.
Watering them is so very important in very hot weather especially. In Part 4 of this series, I talk much more about how to keep your disabled chicken warm in the winter and cool in the summer. Some of the techniques I use, I also use with my guinea pigs and other animals.

Your Disabled Chicken, Part 1: Believe In Your Birdie!

This is my disabled chicken, Antonia. She lives alone in her own dog kennel and exercise yard, and she's my pet chicken.

Yes, she is wearing a vest (this picture is a few months old), which I made from a large piece of felt and some velcro. It had problems staying on her without getting tangled up, though, so I had more success with a medium-sized dog sweater (since she is a large chicken), bought from Wal-Mart for $5.00. I cut the arm-holes bigger on each end of both of them, to accommodate her wings.
She appears to be a trans-rooster (trans-cock?), but hens often have big combs too, so who knows? But since she doesn't appear bothered to be called a she, I continue to do it, because she looked like a hen, to start out with.
A few years ago her feet started becoming stiff, and she had trouble walking. She still has trouble walking. Her feet are crippled up, so she moves slowly and is more careful about her balance than the other chickens. She lives alone so that the other chickens don't bother her or try to mate with her.
But she lives a happy life. She is very active, when it is warm and sunny. I see her preening herself often, which means that she feels good and plans to live. She has survived a bobcat attack and subsequent tumble down a twenty-foot hill, without a scratch. She was extremely lucky, and my dad is an excellent shot. She has survived bumblefoot infection, also, weeks before I knew what it was and therefore how to treat it. She is a great birdie, and she wants to live!
The most important thing you could ever do for your disabled animal, is just to believe in them. I occasionally get asked why I don't put her "out of her pain," but she is NOT in pain; she is disabled. That is all.
She has learned how to lean on something and stretch her foot behind her, and in the summer, I've seen her lying down to stretch her legs. It has caused me concern, but when I approached, she got up. She's actually very fast, in the summer, if she decides she doesn't like me!
Believe in your animal. It will take some time to adjust, for them and for you, but they will learn to live with their disability and lead happy and active lives, as much as they can.
She is not the most severely disabled chicken I've had, either; a rooster became paralyzed, though not in pain, and lived in a large box in my room for a few weeks before he died. I'm only sorry that my cock in a box died. I gave him the best life I could, as long as I could. I owed him as much, after he took over raising four babies after the death of his wife (please put out large pans of water for chickens in the summer, by the way, to help them cool off; I wish I had known this, since the water was only big enough for the babies to wade in). My mom called him Mooster, short for Mama Rooster.
Believe in your birdie, and believe in yourself. To be blunt, one of three things will happen: The recently injured, sick, or disabled animal will either die; heal completely; or you will get over your initial discouragement, be easy on yourself and stop feeling guilty, and find ways to make caring for them easier and more enjoyable. I was feeling so guilty, helpless, and discouraged when she first started having problems, and now she is my favorite chicken and my beloved pet.
I will post an article about what I feed her and how I water her, soon. It is vitally important that disabled chickens eat healthy food and not junk food, much more important than for able-bodied free range chickens, who can go eat bugs and grass whenever they want to; disabled chickens have very limited choices. It's also so very important that your special pet chicken gets enough water, since they can't drink water any time they want to.
I will also mention how to keep them warm in the winter and cool in the summer--again, much, much more important than for other chickens, birds, or animals, because they are not nearly as mobile.
And I will talk about how to pick her up comfortably, because she needs to feel secure and know that she will not be dropped.
But the first thing you've got to do, and the most important, is to believe in your birdie--and believe in yourself!

Going Back To Umpqua

I went back to Umpqua Community College, for the first time since the shooting, on Tuesday. The media and many people from the community were there on Monday, I knew, but my class was on Tuesday.
There were no flags hanging from the tops of utility trucks, like I had seen in pictures of Umpqua College Road on Monday, but I did drive past many signs showing support.
There was also a large purple RV with the words "Billy Graham" splashed across it, sitting on the side of the road by the college's first driveway. I assume that was as close as they could get legally. There was a man sitting in the open door. He wasn't Billy or his son Franklin. The ministry people had obviously thought that we didn't have any churches in Roseburg, so they sent a Port-A-Preacher.

There wasn't anything else that had changed, when I walked into the small theater in which I had my acting class. Of course, I had arrived a few minutes early.
The substitute for our teacher arrived and I shook hands with her. The original teacher had had to take time off, after what happened. Apparently it had affected her very closely.
I was only the second student to arrive. After all of the others had arrived, that was when the parade began.

 In addition to the nine students and our new teacher, there were, crowded in that space:

Two therapy dogs
Two dog handlers
Another guy from the therapy dog agency
Three social workers from an organization known as Community Health Alliance
Two people from the community college in Salem
The director of the art and theater department


The famous comedian, Carol Burnett, was one of the dog handlers, but she lied and said that her name was Barb. We're onto you, Carol.
"There are people all across the country thinking about you--and praying for you," Carol said, significantly. The dog people made us all take business cards for both of the dogs, Hannah and Moses, whom they said each had their own Facebook pages.
This is what the cards looked like:

And the bible verses on their cards match the bible verses on their Facebook pages, in the "About" tab.
"They're like Pokemon cards," the man who wasn't a handler said. "You gotta collect them all. Except they all have the same power. They throw Comfort-Bombs!" he said enthusiastically.
His joke made me uncomfortable.

As far as I could tell, all the dogs have biblical names. I found a "Jonah" puppy on Facebook, but that was all I could find in a cursory search. (Edit: I have since found a Cubby, a Susie, a Zippy, a Tabby, and an Angel, though "Angel" doesn't really count as secular. There are still a lot of biblical names, though, Jacob, for example.)
There were also large Jesus-fishes splashed across the dogs' vests, in addition to the fishes and bible verses on their cards. All of this is a huge violation, in my opinion, of these dogs' freedom of religion. You can't tell me that every single one of those dogs is a Christian. That's statistically impossible.
These "Lutheran Church Charities" people are obviously compensating for not being able to preach or give out gospel tracts in the places where they go to help. And I thought I was a little militant by wearing my tiny rainbow flag pins everywhere. (Yes, I wore them that day, and I was glad that I had.)
Of course, I did appreciate all of these offers of help, from many different people and animals. But I knew that the people who really needed help the most were probably absent. And these helping people couldn't reach out to them.
I also knew that at least for me, it is most difficult long after a tragedy, not right after. I can easily say, "My cat died yesterday," for example, but a week or month afterwards, it's extremely difficult to even think about it, much less talk about it.
I didn't really need it (though others might have), but it was neat having dogs in the class, and petting them, because they were cleaner and calmer than my two large, difficult-to-wash dogs.
And I was polite to the Lutherans and the others. I smiled, and said "Thank you," for their prayers and cards, though I was a little uncomfortable with so much attention and their overly soothing tones of voice. I smiled, but (with church people) they didn't know that I wasn't always smiling with them...

The Baby Bunny, Or Why I Don't Believe In Wildlife Rehabilitation

 I didn't publish this at first, because the bunny died the next day, and it was too painful. My sentiments still remain the same, though; I couldn't just put her back into the wild, because another cat could find her just as easily as her biological mother could. If I had it to do over again, I would give her goat milk twice a day, not once a day, because in this case she was choosing how much she drank, not me, so I probably wasn't in danger of overfeeding her. That still may not have saved her, though, as rabbits are fragile creatures.


"You know, it will be a year next month, since we found Marshmallow," my mother said to me this past Father's Day, referring to the kitten we found with a shattered pelvis and a normally fatal feline disease. The vet wanted us to put him down, but we refused, nursed him back to health, and today he enjoys a full and active life, with a slightly uneven gait but no limping or "knuckling" under of his foot, like he used to have.
Last month we took him to that same vet for an "accupoke" (as it was advertised) and chiropractic appointment. The vet had not seen Marshmallow in a while.
"You're going to be amazed at our Marshmallow," my mom smiled, as I took him out of his carrier.
"Holy Jesus!" the vet cried. "He's huge!"
"Yeah, he's a big baby!" I laughed.

But Marshmallow was not the end of the story; apparently, fate has decreed that we are given a free baby animal every summer now. I've won Mother Nature's lottery!
Another of our cats, a young black-and-white tom named Panda, was in the field, and my mom reported that he had been carrying something in his mouth. She was worried, because we had seen a mother turkey with two babies in the same field earlier.
So I ran down there, while she followed. At first I thought the tiny bunny was dead, because it wasn't moving at all, then realized that it was still alive. As I picked it up, I saw wet fur on its haunch, but no apparent injuries. It did not resist or try to run away at all.
"Don't pick it up!" my mother yelled, irritated that I would pick up a dead carcass. "Is it dead?"
"No, it's alive!" I said excitedly, carrying it with my shirt, like a closed, safe little hammock.  (I have often carried Marshmallow like this, when his pelvis was shattered, in order to put as little stress as possible on his broken bones. He still likes it when I carry him like that.)
We couldn't find any other rabbits around, big or small, or any kind of burrow. Later we would watch Panda to see where he went, but he only walked around the pond--and rabbits are not aquatic, to my knowledge.
It was so very tiny. I found an empty plastic tote, with no lid, and put in some timothy hay, which I fortunately already had for my guinea pigs to eat. As soon as I put it in the high-sided tote, it tried to jump out and get away, which made me feel a little relieved, for its health.
I put a bowl of water in with it, though I didn't see it drink. I covered part of the tote with a towel, to make it feel safer, and put a leaf of lettuce in there, which though it had teeth, I haven't seen it eat.
I wished I had a "snuggle sack" (like a tiny sleeping bag) to put in with it, to keep it warm, but later thought to substitute one of my beanie hats, reasoning that though the rabbit might not like the fact that the hat smelled like me, it was at least some place warm to burrow in.
"I'm your mama now. I know I'm different than you, but I still love you," I told it. "I'll still take care of you and keep you safe."
I shut the rabbit in my room, without any cats or other animals, while my mom and I did our evening chores, giving it a chance to get over its shock. Panda kept following me around, demanding attention.
"He knows you have his rabbit," Mom remarked.
"It's almost like God knew you were stingy and wouldn't let me get a bunny, and said, 'Nope--she can have a bunny if she wants one,'" I teased her.
"Yeah, that's coming from an atheist," she snorted.
I'm not sure what the point of that was. I don't see any harm in indulging in a little "what if" scenario. My practical side will keep me grounded, I think. 

I think it is a female, since I haven't found any little nuts, but it may be too early to tell for sure. I would guess her age at about two weeks, though what I've found for how to tell by their sizes is not that comprehensive with pictures or scale objects. In any case, she is small enough to still require milk.
 The internet sources said that Meyenburg goat milk was an acceptable rabbit milk substitute (I'm not sure why the brand name is special, though in my area, it seems that that is the only brand of goat milk available, unless you want to get to second base with a goat, yourself). Strangely enough, my dad had bought a quart of it for me that very day, since I like goat milk myself.
We watered it down, and had some success, though it was hard to hold her still while my mom syringed it into her mouth.
"I think you should give her some more before you go to bed," Mom suggested.
"I'm not sure how I'll do it by myself," I answered.
"Every time that syringe gets near her mouth, she wants to nurse. Just try."
So as I was feeding her for the first time by myself, a little milk dropped out of the syringe and onto my hand. To my astonishment, she started licking it off my hand!
I kept syringing more into my hand, and she kept licking it off. It tickled my hand, it warmed my heart, and it made me think that she was healthy and was already starting to trust me. Maybe human palms feel just like rabbit nipples.
Finally, she had had enough, and disappeared back into the folds of the beanie hat, in which I had picked her up and in which my mother and I tried to feed her. So I put the hat, with her in it, back in her tote, shutting her tote in my closet (after checking the closet for cats) so that the cats that like to sleep on my bed would not have to give up their room.
I am hoping that she will be more friendly and less afraid than rabbits and guinea pigs that I've adopted as adults or teenagers. When she's an adult, I plan to have her spayed, or neutered, as the case may be. I think she will be happier that way, less restless.

She's a "wild" rabbit, though not wild now, and may even grow into a hare or jackrabbit (we have those around). But I cannot imagine ever "rehabilitating" my new baby into the dangerous wild. I just can't do it, no matter how much the game wardens (I have one in my family!) may moralize. I don't think they could rightfully fine us or take it away, either, because it's not an adult rabbit.
I remember visiting a friend of my mom's who had a tortoise named Oscar. I brought Oscar rose petals from my garden, hearing that he loved them. Surprisingly, when his owner picked him up to show him to me, he drew his head and arms back, and hissed at me. I had no idea that tortoises hissed.
Oscar's mommy said that her daughter had gotten him in Nevada, where they were being given away next to the airports, so that the planes wouldn't run them over. He had been sick once, and she had taken him to a vet, who had cussed her out and preached at her about the "need" to release him into the wild, because the vet claimed that he was of an endangered species.
"But what if he gets hit by a car?" I asked.
"Exactly," Oscar's mommy replied. "She called to ask if we had released him in the wild, and I said, 'Yes, ma'am, I took care of it.' He can live with us for as long as we're alive," she added.

I think that people often buy into doctrines about animals that are good for the authorities, but not necessarily for the individual animals. During WWII, the British government urged its citizens to "destroy" its animals, in order to have more food to feed the troops and citizens. I believe that that's where a lot of the doctrine about "putting an animal out of its pain" came from. If owners aren't giving extra care, food, and medicine to an aging or ailing pet, then there's more resources for humans and other animals.
We kill our "imperfect" pets for our own convenience, and that of the authorities. (And ironically, the very eugenicist Nazis, who did this very thing to humans, were huge animal lovers, Hitler the biggest of all.)
Same goes for "wildlife rehabilitation." The goal isn't just to "rehabilitate" an injured or sick animal, but to release it back into the wild. The same "wild" that humans, with their dogs, cars, and guns, are encroaching upon more and more every year!
Some animals are naturally prey animals, too. Even if my rabbit became a happy, healthy, fully adult wild bunny, she could still be eaten by dogs, hawks, and cars.
This is an insanely cruel system, and one that is only good for those, human and beast, that wish to hunt these animals. Even carnivores like bobcats and foxes could be killed by coyotes and domestic dogs.
The safest place for an animal is under a human's care. Even for a deer, I have lactating goats (though the milk is not as rich or plentiful as store-bought goat milk, with which I could supplement it). An orphaned deer would have a ready-made mama, for goats are more related to deer than sheep, and the mama would recognize her baby once it poops and smells like her milk (I've forced a goat to nurse her babies before, every hour during the day, and it "took" after a day or so).
(I wish I had an orphaned deer, in fact; it could run with the goat herd as an adult, though I don't know where I'll find a vet to neuter or spay it.)

If I find an animal, I get to keep it--that's the rule, for the laws of nature (including that of fatal diseases) just don't apply at my house. I may not be able to help many "wild" animals, though I am very grateful for this one.
As I later told my grandfather, my cat may be a little confused about what a father actually is, but he was still so sweet to give me a Father's Day present. I guess single moms can be like dads to their kids.

I'm A New Age Hippie

I was trying to save my rescued kitten, Marshmallow, from dying of internal bleeding or FIP (a fatal feline disease that attacks their intestines). My mother, the vet and I didn't know what was wrong with his swollen stomach; x-rays showed that it was filled with "fluid," though I later heard a crackling, like air bubbles popping, when rubbing a certain place on his rib cage. For that reason I thought that his stomach might be filled with air, from a punctured lung, though we still don't know for certain to this day. (For more on how we treated him, see "The Kitten," or leave a comment, and I will try to recall all the supplements we gave him.)
On top of his potentially life-threatening stomach condition, he also had a runny eye, which the vet said was likely chlamydia (cats apparently get it from other cats, not necessarily sexual contact; we treated his eye with food-grade iodine applied in the eye). Perhaps worst of all, though, his pelvis was "shattered," broken in four or five different places, and he was presumably in quite a bit of pain.
The vet seemed required to be neutral, though leaning towards euthanasia; we decided to take Marshmallow home instead.
"I know he might be in a lot of pain, but if he lives, he won't be forever," my mom remarked to me later.
"Exactly," I agreed. "I don't think any animal would say, 'I'm in so much pain, I want to die.'"
But we did not know whether he was going to make it or not. Riding home after the appointment, holding him, my heart was already heavy with grief. We have to do all we can for him, I thought desperately, We CAN'T give up! I sometimes like to call this state, which feels close to insanity, "desperate optimism."
My mother and I would try anything. We stuffed him full of supplements, laxatives (because of the broken pelvis, making it difficult for him to excrete), and herbs. We told him how much we loved him. I sang to him the "I Love You Forever" song, over and over.
I even held him and tried to send "healing love vibes" to him, from my heart, trying to strengthen him and his immune system. I whispered stuff like, "Let my love heal you," and "Let me give you strength." I did not know if they did any good at all, but I had to try.
I would try anything to help him, but I don't remember praying during this time. I think I would start prayers, but never end with an "amen."
"Please, let him live--oh, what's the point? You don't care!" is my typical prayer during difficult times.
I have no idea about the effectiveness of any kind of "intercession," though I would try anything, to cure an animal or human. Except that I have difficulty with prayer, oddly enough, because of my experience with trying and seemingly failing to get close to God and to please him.
I have a very interesting book by new age writer Louise Hay, called "You Can Heal Your Life." Its basic premises are that physical conditions often manifest emotional states--near-sightedness means you don't want to see the future, for example, and menstrual cramps mean that you don't like being a woman, so that in addition to treating the physical condition, you must treat the emotional state, or you will continue to have problems. She says that no matter what the ailment, the first place she starts is teaching her clients to love themselves. I think she is right at least about one thing: Most people avoid looking into mirrors as they pass, because they don't want to deal with themselves. A way to cure this is to look into a mirror and say, "I love you," with your own name.
 I have tried some of her techniques for affirmations, and they have seemed to work, sometimes. Even if they are placebos, I do think that the suggestion to masturbate in order to cure migraine headaches is certainly not a placebo.
A lot of atheists would probably ridicule me for my strange health practices, but I'm not a scientist in a laboratory, trying to find out something. I'm a person living my life, trying to throw everything I can at a problem (provided the treatments and such are not likely to be dangerous).
And what I get from being a hippie in this way is that at least I know that I've done everything I possibly could have. I think that that's very good for my own mental, emotional, and physical health, in and of itself.

Praying To Saint Feezl, My Dead Cat

A few years ago, an adopted cat that was supposed to be fixed had five kittens. We found them under the front deck, and my mom dismantled the deck and held the boards up for me, while I collected them in a box with a towel.
"There's like, five!" I exclaimed.
"Shut up!" my mom said.
"They just keep coming," I said, very happily, placing each of them carefully in their new bed.
"Shut up!"
But that didn't change anything; there were still five.

My dad wanted to call them Hitcher, Pointer, Flipper, Ringer, and Pinky. He counted off his fingers as he explained the names to me, and the names matched his fingers perfectly. I thought that that was very clever.
One of the kittens died a few days after being born. We now had only four. Eventually, my mom suggested that each of us (my parents, my funny little brother Cody, and I) name one cat. I named mine Elmo (who had huge ears, so I started calling her Earmo); Cody's cat was Smoky; my mother's was Dewey (whom I lately call Slappy Cat, because if I pet him and try to walk away, he runs after me and slaps me).

And my father was determined to name one Flipper, after the rude finger:

My mom thought that Flipper was not a nice name for a sweet little kitten, so she started calling her Izzy (not that it really bothered my dad). One day my dad looked over and saw her on my lap. "Fuzzy's being your friend," he remarked.
So because of his mistake, she became Fuzzy. I liked to call her sister and her Smellmo and Fleazy. "Fuzzy" and "Fleazy" eventually evolved into Feezy, then Feezl (pronounced Fee-zul, emphasis on the first syllable), and sometimes Nozzle or Furzal.
Her brother Smoky became a pain in the butt, so we started calling him Stinky. So the pair of them became Feezl and Stinkl.

I bonded with Feezl more than with the other cats. She seemed more intuitive than them, for some reason, and she was a caring kitty.
When I served her tuna, I told her, "Feezl, eat your fishl!" I also told her to eat her meatzl, her cheezl, and her fowlzl. When I wanted to get her off my lap, I told her, "Pleazl, Feezl, I have to peezl!" When I told my mom that she had peezled in our garden, Mom asked, "Are you sure she didn't poozl?"
When she stole my peacock feathers, she was a thiefzl. When she bit the heads off of them, she was a little white rat. She once came in the window and released a live mouse in my room at two in the morning, trying to teach the kitten (Simon) and me how to hunt--that's how amazing she was.
When she slipped through the fence, I said that she squeezl. When she leaped, I told my mom that she could flyzl. I named my Deviantart page (FeezlFuzzl, where I write homoerotic, Christian comic strip fan fiction) after one of her names.

I often sang an old hymn to her, "There's flies on you, and there's flies on me, but there ain't no flies on Feezus!"
"Oh, Feezus," I would say, cuddling with her, "I just love you so much. This is why you are so amazing."
I got to calling her Feezus on a regular basis, and one night, my mom and I were watching tv while I was playing with her, when Feezus made one of the biggest leaps/backflips that I had ever seen.
"Whoa!" my mom cried.
"Feezus Mice!" I shouted.
My mom started laughing, delighted at my new name for our kitty.
After that, I also added, "Hail, Feezer!" to my greetings for her, too.
She once played with a dried onion that had dropped to the floor, and had really bad breath when she cuddled with me afterwards.
"You know I love you," my mom told her once, when she lay on her chest, "but you are the love of AJ's life." My mom says that Feezl simply looked at her and slow-blinked, as if she was saying, "I know."

She comforted me when her sister Elmo fell off the roof and died in my arms. She comforted me when her "little brother," a younger cat that we had raised as a kitten, ran away and was never seen again.

Simon, kitten.

Simon, adult.

She was especially "needy" also, when my rabbits died.

Wally

Wilbur

Wilbur's brother, Clarence

She knew what I needed, and she was there for me, always.


And then she ran away herself. I thought that surely she must be dead, because she would have come home, if she could have. She always was adventurous, as well.
 A few months later, another cat, Sebastian, disappeared. He was barely more than a kitten himself, only a few months old. I had known that I would lose some of my nine new kittens eventually, but I didn't think it would be this soon--just like I hadn't thought it would be this soon, with Feezl.
Sebastian had been gone for six days when I went to copy something for school one night, and accidentally came across a picture of Feezl. "Oh, Feezl," I prayed quietly (though I can't bring myself to pray to God, most of the time, because he seems too far away), "Please come home if you can. I need you. Please, just come home."
My mom then wanted to watch "our show," which at the time was Parks and Recreation. In the particular episode we watched that night, the main character, Leslie Knope, saw an "impersonator" of Li'l Sebastian, the miniature horse that she had been obsessed with (and who had died in an earlier episode), and took it as a sign that she should marry her boyfriend, after all.
The next morning, my mom woke me up, carrying...our Little Sebastian. He was back!
"Is that him?" I asked, in the limited light from the hallway, hoping against hope that it wasn't his twin brother Sasha, who was also yellow but who wasn't missing.
It wasn't Sasha. "Dad found him, just sitting on the deck. He was hungry," she said.
I took it that Feezl had perhaps heard my prayer, and had been unable to return herself, because she wasn't in this plane anymore (physical plane, not airplane). So she had sent Sebastian home, instead. She had even known that we would watch that very episode.
So now I have a sort of personal patron saint, in the form of my late cat Feezl. She does what she can for me, in her own limited power, and even after her likely death, she apparently still watches out for me and takes care of me. I still sometimes hope that she is alive and will return, as I hope for her "little brother," Simon, but I don't think it's likely for either of them. (We later found another orange cat, but it wasn't Simon, because that would mean that his balls grew back.)
But at least I feel more connected to her, since Sebastian has returned.
I guess this makes me a sort of Catholic, except I pronounce it as "Cat-holic" (which, on two levels, would explain my many furry children).
I hope there's an afterlife, and that I'll get to see her again, someday. Not seeing loved ones has to be the saddest thing about death.

For more stories about amazing kitties and other great creatures, see: 

"The Kitten, Or Why I Don't Believe In Animal Euthanasia," 

 "The Kitten, Part Two: He Wanted To Live," 

And my "Animals & Euthanasia" page here or at the top of this site.


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The Kitten, Part Two: He Wanted To Live

Pictured above is my little Marshmallow, about six months old now, with his adopted sister Callie (they are both sleeping, not dead, and I'm not sure why he has his tongue out in the second one). He is, in a way (a significant way) more special to me than my other cats, because I almost lost him, and this was right after my mother and I had found him.
Basically, his body was broken, his pelvis shattered, and the vet encouraged us to have him euthanized. He was presumably in a lot of pain, but we couldn't do it. The pain would be temporary, if he lived, and if he didn't, then we felt he at least deserved a fighting chance, a slightly longer life.
I still don't know to this day whether his swollen belly was FIP (a fatal feline disease), internal bleeding, or the air from a punctured lung, but we fed him full of herbs and supplements, and he lived. I get emotional daily over the simple fact that he lived!
I truly believe that he chose to live. He seemed determined, I was determined, and my mother was determined. He was going to live, if at all possible. We would not accept defeat until he was dead, cold and stiff. And now it appears that he won't be that way for a very long time yet.
This is, more or less, my mother's philosophy on living, and mine. "I just wonder, if people thought that there would be no afterlife, if they would fight harder," she said to me once.
She recalls often the time that she called a cousin of hers, offering to send supplements for her dying father. "These might help him and prolong his life," she reasoned.
"Oh, no, he said he just wants to go home," was the answer she got. "He's ready to go to heaven."
My mother does not call herself an atheist. I don't think she really calls herself anything, anymore. But she and I think the same way on a lot of matters, especially important ones like this. We both went through years of trying desperately to get close to God, shared our struggles with each other, tried very hard to be good Christians, to serve everyone around us.
And we both came to the conclusion that we just wanted to know the truth, even if it was painful. We don't want to believe anything that may not be true, and I believe that trusting the wrong people or ideologies is a good way to get hurt, be taken advantage of, or make the wrong choices.
My dad often teases us about our dedication to animal health. "He's going to be loved, dammit!" he laughed one day, when my mom wouldn't let Marshmallow out of the house because it was cold.
"That's right!" she agreed, animated.
"Good thing I'm not on my deathbed," he rolled his eyes, grinning. He turned to me. "Don't let her do that to me, Little One," he instructed.
"No, I will," she said, adamantly, "because guess what? When you're gone, you're gone!"
"Make them pull the plug," he informed me.
"Not me! You keep me alive as long as they'll let you!"
This fight was good-natured, but she was loud, passionate. I was happy to know that I would have my mother with me for as long as humanly possible.
I am very proud of her, and of my kitten.
We had determined to do everything we possibly could for him, that would not run the risk of hurting him. Though I could not truly bring myself to pray for his condition, at least not "properly," I remember holding him and trying to send "healing love vibes," from my heart, to him. I whispered things to him, like, "Let my love heal you." I tried to make my love give him strength. I sang the "I Love You Forever" song to him over and over again. I had the bluegrass song, "Carry Me Across The Mountain," about a mother who refuses to accept her sick child's death as inevitable, constantly in my head.
I believe that love can heal, and can strengthen. I have no idea whether the New Age, hippie-type stuff mentioned above actually works or not, but I would have tried anything, and I would do it all over again. I would try anything, and it at least is something to try. One benefit of these things, that I know to be true, is that it made me less negative and discouraged around him. Negativity was replaced with a grim, desperate determination.
I tell him often, "You'll get as much care as you need, Baby," though he hardly needs any care at all now, and I tell my other animals the same thing when they get sick or injured. I don't know how much animals understand, but I tell them anyway, just in case they do.
During Thanksgiving, I told Marshmallow's story to some relatives of mine. They seemed impressed.
"Yeah, but what kind of life does he have?" an uncle asked me.
If I had answered honestly, I would have told him, "The life of a little shit, that's what kind."
He climbs onto our roof with the other cats, in spite of our wishes. He occasionally jumps from heights much too high for a cat with a once-broken pelvis, as much as seven feet (again, in spite of our wishes), and doesn't seem hurt by the landing. He is an aggressive wrestler, attacking his siblings. He has caught (or probably stolen) several mice. When I have tried to rescue the mice (because life is precious), he grabs them and runs away to hide.
He was rebellious to the laws of nature, and now he is rebellious to us. And I wouldn't have it any other way.
Still, what my uncle had said bothered me. I hoped it was not a cover for the sentiment that animals don't count. (There is nothing that makes me more murderous than hearing the phrase, "It's just an animal!" Imagine God or an alien life form saying that about us!)
I believe that life is precious, all life, except perhaps some humans. If some people don't care about their fellow creatures, or fellow humans, I would actually prefer that those people did not live. My one consolation is that I am not alone in my sentiments towards animals (and most of our species), and that at least the laws of nature don't apply at my house.

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Poultry, Prophylactics And Creepy Clothing

The last time I had been in the vet's office with my rescued kitten, Marshmallow, the receptionist had told me to turn in my resume with them, as she needed a part-time replacement. That was on a Friday. My dad helped me make one up over the weekend, and I was sure to include my stint as a volunteer at my little brother's preschool, where I "cleaned up vomit" if one of the children got sick, because "the teacher had a weak stomach." Fortunately the little girl in question had only been eating popcorn, but I had cleaned up much worse at home from my own cats, and figured that would be a useful skill in a vet's office.
For once, I was really excited about applying for a job. I liked the staff and doctor, and thought I could learn much about taking care of animals. So that Monday I drove for the first time by myself, as I had gotten my license about a week before.
My parents told me not to worry too much about looking professional, but the vet had on one of the earlier visits thought that I was eleven (a twelve-year difference, which is a personal record), so I figured I could not look too old or too competent. I wore black slacks, a red blouse, and put my hair in a bun. I noticed that the receptionist always had her hair done up in a fancy style, so I added a large metal butterfly clip in the back.
"The kitty's fine," I explained. "I'm just dropping off my resume."
I was surprised at how easy it was to do once I got there, but even more surprised at how normal it seemed to be driving by myself. I felt that I was constantly tempting fate, but somehow that was okay.
The last thing I wanted to do afterwards was to go home, and I decided I had errands to run. There was something I had wanted to do for a long time now.
I remembered the last time I had been in this particular store, only a few days after getting my license, hearing the song, "Jesus Take The Wheel."
I bought an ice cream bar, dark red lipstick (hoping I would look professional and competent wearing it) and, though I was somewhat nervous, condoms.
I had found them right next to the diapers, which in a funny way made perfect sense. It was like they were sending a deliberate message: "If this doesn't work, you're gonna need this."
I was surprised that I didn't have to show ID to get them, but I didn't question it.
On the way home I passed a church sign saying, "Worried about where your soul is going after you die? Call this number to find out." It was a local number, meaning some pastor or other resident decided to post his number in public, potentially exposing himself to prank calls or atheists looking for trouble. It was a bit tempting, though I didn't want to get a headache from aggravation or look like an asshole.
I was feeling judgmental. Those baby chicks should be in a pen, I thought, driving by the church. I don't care how good a mom that hen is, that's just irresponsible. I prefer to lock my baby animals up until they're fully grown, just to be safe.
I thought of stealing the whole family, PETA-style. After all, I have a coop, and I could be saving their lives. But I didn't think I could catch them all, or do it without being caught.
I fantasized about the note I would leave:

"Dear Bible-Thumpers,

Next time buy a fucking coop! No matter how great a mom she is, the babies could still get run over, or eaten by a cat or a hawk. Life is precious, as it's possibly the only thing we have, the only chance there is.

Sincerely,

A Concerned Atheist Chicken-Thief (Who Has A Goddamned Coop)

P.S. I'm going to bring those babies up right, and teach them that there is no god. Hope you like chickens to fry!"

Then I would go to their church the next Sunday and see if they condemned my love of animals as thievery or called animals their property. That is, if the chickens were even owned by the church and not by one of its neighbors. If only I wouldn't be caught...I sighed.
Pulling onto my road, I was thinking about my blog, and the "next step" in my atheist activism. I hoped I would get the chance to debate theists someday, though that would involve "coming out" to my family about my non-belief and my blog activity. I planned to join my college's debate club at the start of the term, and hoped I could get enough signatures to start an atheist/humanist/secularist/freethinkers club. Thirty student signatures were required, though some classes typically had less than ten students (I was even once in a class in which there was only one other student). If I could only get it going, in spite of whatever opposition we had, I was sure somebody from the bible study club would love to debate us.
My thoughts were stopped short when I noticed two forked-horn deer next to the road. Next to them were a mama and two babies, still with their spots. I stopped, staring at them in awe, wishing I had something to feed them. I stayed there for about ten minutes, watching them eat fallen apples from the neighbor's front yard, making the neighbors think I was creepy, I'm sure. But I didn't care. One of the bucks stared at me curiously, and I pretended to chew my cud, causing him to relax again. I watched them until they all leaped away.
How can God possible disapprove of my life? I thought. If He is real, and I was just thinking about what I would do next to promote atheism...or at least change people's minds about atheists...
I guess even as an atheist I still sometimes see God in the beauty of nature. I'm still not certain that that's real evidence, though, and I don't think a theist would like my interpretation of His messages.
The next day I got the condoms out from where I had hidden them in my backpack. I did something long denied to me as a home-schooler, and something I had always wanted to do: I rolled a condom onto a banana. I've finally joined the rest of the normal world, I thought. Is this really how big a penis is? Surely not as big as the banana? And how am I supposed to feel these "ribs" when they're so tiny? Oh well, I guess they're better than nothing.
And now I can be sexually active, I thought. I wonder if I'll meet someone I like?
I thought of Ben, the innocent Christian boy whom I haven't seen in a while, and whom I haven't gotten over. The phrase "I have condoms" would probably have scared him away. He was probably too "pure" as well to say yes. But there wasn't anyone I wanted to fuck more.
I put the remaining condoms away, sighing. I wondered if I would use them by their 2018 expiration date (which sounded a little dangerous to me, as I had heard condoms expired within six months). I wanted them to be more than water balloons, but only if I was in love.
That night my mother  ran into my room, excited. "Look what was in that box of clothes my cousin sent us!" she said. She held up a t-shirt promoting her cousin's high-school volleyball team. It looked like this:

 

I was flabbergasted.

I laughed uncomfortably, struck speechless. Even without believing in Him, "God" still occasionally creeps me the fuck out.

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Driven To The Breaking Point By A Goddamn Cat Shoe

The hurt kitten, whom we found about two weeks before, was more active now, but the toes on his bad leg curled under, like a gorilla walking on his fists. It caused me no small amount of grief, but as I didn't know how to build him a shoe or cast, I did nothing. Feeling rather helpless, for days I nagged my mom about his foot (never mind the fact that she was busy working, running a household, and trying to figure out what medicines to feed him to keep him alive).
"I have to think about how to do this," she said. "He needs it all the way up to his ankle."
"Just a simple little shoe," I said. "Anything is better than nothing."
I'm not sure, in retrospect, that his foot was the most important thing to worry about, but apparently I have very precise ideas about how cats should walk. I also wonder now why I begged her to do it but felt helpless to do it myself.
Finally I had had enough of his foot causing me distress. Fuck her! I thought. I'm rebelling!
So I summoned my inner feminist, grabbed some cardboard, cotton and stretchy medical tape, and cobbled something together resembling a shoe with a cardboard sole. It was much easier than I thought it would be; if I had known sooner how simple it would be, it would have saved me a lot of grief.
"See?" I pointed out. "Just a simple little shoe, which prevents him from bending his toes. It's not perfect, but it will do for now."
To my surprise, she praised my efforts. "Good job. Looks like it works."
"I try not to go behind your back like that," I said later, self-consciously. "I normally try not to be 'rebellious.'"
"You're twenty-three years old; how can you possibly be rebellious?" she asked.
I was astonished; I had never thought of it that way before.
"You didn't go behind my back," she continued. "You just took charge."
I was actually shocked to find out that she was not a bit upset, and disgusted to think that it had never occurred to me that I could do it on my own. She should have been more decisive or confident, perhaps...but then again, so should I.
My parents are the easiest people to please that I know. How many times have I heard, growing up, "Your mom's so nice; she gives you so many choices," and "What happens at Auntie's, stays at Auntie's." But I still thought that bandaging the cat was usurping her authority. Four years out of Christian school, and I'm still afraid of disrespecting my parents, who never get offended.
 I wish I had discovered this sooner, that it's impossible to rebel at twenty-three, and that cat shoes are surprisingly easy to make, before I had thought "Fuck her," and wasted my energy getting angry for no reason.

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Symbols And Events

"I know this sounds strange, but he has to live," my mom remarked to me the other day regarding our injured kitten. "It's not just about him. I don't know why that is."
"Is it because so many people told us to put him down?"
"Probably, yes."
I felt it too: The cat had become a symbol of my values and beliefs. If he lived, I was right; if he died, I was wrong. If I was so sure of myself and the rightness of what I was doing, I wondered, why did I still need to be vindicated?
I wanted to save him through the Power Of Atheism: No prayer, no looking to a god, just hard work, research, intuition and determination. As ridiculous as it seemed even to myself, it was still "me vs. God" (a mentality I thought I had grown out of in my teens, as I became more skeptical).
What is wrong with me? I wondered. Why do I have to be proven right? And most of all, what do I do if he dies?
Maybe you should realize that not everything says something about you as a person or about your choices, the wiser, calmer side of me thought. You're not to blame for everything. Sometimes things just happen.
Of course. Things just happen. So simple, so obvious, and yet so hard to accept. When everything is either from God or Satan, and when an all-powerful deity either does everything or lets everything happen, nothing can "just happen." When people don't want to be or feel helpless, and when society is addicted to stories with a hero and a villain (as this article from Cracked.com so aptly demonstrates)...sometimes you become the villain. Sometimes you end up blaming yourself.
What happens does not always determine whether you are good or bad. It does not always incriminate or acquit others either.

I stroke his soft fur back and forth, enjoying the vibrations of his purring. He is still alive. And knowing this simple truth eases my burden considerably.
Events do not determine what kind of person I am.
I do.

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The Kitten, Or Why I Don't Believe In Animal Euthanasia

"Oh, look at that kitty!" my mom smiled and pointed, stopping the car. "Oh no, he's dragging his leg, go get him!"
As I grabbed him, he bit down on my finger, harder than it seemed possible, drawing blood in two places. It was quite painful. "Oh, fuck!" I yelled, but somehow managed to get him in the car. He would bite me two more times, but I guess that's the price one pays for a free kitten (my mother didn't get bit at all, though, which somehow doesn't seem fair).

The next day we took him to the vet. The x-ray said that his pelvis was "shattered," as the vet put it, broken in four or five different places. His stomach was filled with some kind of fluid (though we wonder now if it was air, as we later discovered he had a punctured lung).
The vet seemed grim and sympathetic. The cat might have internal bleeding, he said ("Vitamin K is a blood-clotting agent!" my mom later said). He might have Feline Infectious Peritonitis (FIP), a disease that attacks cats' intestines and kills them, the vet said ("There are people on the internet whose cats have survived this!" Mom said).
The doctor seemed to be leaning towards euthanasia. The cat was in a lot of pain, he said. We decided instead to take him home and at the very least let him die in a comfortable environment.
"Not to say anything about your expertise," Mom explained, "but we have pulled many animals back from the brink before, and we'd like to try it now." (Even my skeptical dad has learned by now not to doubt our magic.)
People who heard of what had happened said how sorry they were, how hard it is to have to do this, then were shocked when told he was still alive. They said we should have put him down.
After one day I even stopped giving him his antibiotic, because he needed gut flora and antibiotics don't work on viruses anyway; another controversial move, I am sure.
 An acquaintance of ours, a nice lady with some unconventional ideas, helped us find the herbs we needed. She said she had recently had to put down her own eighteen-year-old cat. "An enema could damage his bowels," she said, concerned (the kitten doesn't poop any other way, leaving us with no choice--and leaving us overjoyed when he shits on the carpet). I don't think it's a coincidence that her cat died of a bowel blockage.
Really? I thought in desperation. You had telepathic conversations with your cat, but all of a sudden you're too conventional to shove some glycerin up her ass? 
"I know some about taking care of people, but I don't know much about cats," she also said. I guess the famous Library of Alexandria didn't have anything on the subject. I would think that someone who spent a past life as a scholar in ancient Egypt would know all about taking care of cats (or gods, as the case may be).
Mom says that when she called the vet about a week later to order a laxative for him, the doctor sounded sympathetic, then surprised.
I know that he is a very nice guy, and that he was only doing his job, and that he's only human, but a small part of me still wants to do a little dance and scream, "Kiss our asses, you big fat know-it-all!" Such a fantasy is particularly satisfying when, after worrying over the cat for the past week-and-a-half, after all the research, medicines, and enemas, after rearranging my life to fit his needs, people still think we're not doing the right thing, that we're being selfish and harming him.
It has surprised even me how little pain he seems to be in anymore. He cleans himself, plays a little, nurses on our mama cat (the rescue cat we thought was fixed). Before writing this post, I lay on the floor for a while, the kitten on my chest, petting him and listening to him purr, sigh, and fall asleep on my heart. He is a pampered little prince now, and he knows he is loved.
The worst thing that could happen is that he dies right now, which I don't think is very likely anymore. In that case, he still lived an extra week-and-a-half, he had raw hamburger and milk and massages, he spent time with new siblings who were nice to him and who made him purr just to look at them, and he knew he was loved and part of a family.
 I made myself sound kind of dumb the other day when I remarked, "I'll bet he's much happier than he would be if he were dead."
"Uh...yeah," my mother replied, like I had said something obvious.
But I meant it too. I don't believe any animal would choose to die, no matter what cats say telepathically to their owners. That is why I don't believe in putting an animal "out of its pain."
I realize that not every animal can get the same level of care and attention that he has now, and that overcrowded shelters have to keep up certain standards of sanitation by law, and that some potential pet owners only want cute, clean, healthy, low-maintenance, non-disabled pets (and sometimes only babies).
But as dog as my witness, until I am compelled to stop, I will still try to save as many animals as I can. Because either God is working through me to do just that, or He doesn't give a shit and I'm their only hope.

(For more on Marshmallow, the kitten, and other animals, see my "Animals& Euthanasia" tab at the top of the page, or The Kitten, Part Two: He Wanted To Live)

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