Lizzie Borden the good kitty looks at us from her bed.

Good-Bye Lizzie Borden

Good-Bye Lizzie Borden

Lizzie Borden the good kitty looks at us from her bed.

Lizzie Borden the Cheats-At-Poker Cat is looking at YOU.
In her bed, on my bed. *Pretty sure she has an opposable dew claw to hide that 5th Ace


The Queen of Cat-titude, Poker Cheating, Persian Playmate of the Tortie Variety, Hep Cat of the West, suddenly became very ill.  Just something off that I noticed three weeks ago. One little thing. It took another full week before Lizzie’s health and life began a downward spiral.
By last Saturday she weighed only four pounds.

Monday morning I took her back to the vet, after bringing her home to spend her last days here. would you think that a beloved companion should spend their last days in a cage? Being force-fed? Force medicated? No, you wouldn’t.

Psycho Killer GTFO of Blasphemous Rumors

Qu’est-ce que c’est

Unless you’re a serial killer, in which case go away.
What the hell are you doing on this page?

Was foolishly hoping that she would rebound by being in familiar surroundings. She was drinking water, but still refusing to eat. It was impossible to watch her starve herself to death. One day at home, towards her passing, was all that was allowed to me.

Neither offerings of peanut butter, pork rinds, or wildly impossible magickal thinking could do the trick. Made that terrible but necessary decision many of us have faced. Now she is gone.
The nod to release her from fear, pain and confusion was difficult. I’m selfish and wanted Lizzie to stay.
She lost more than a third of her body weight in two weeks. The diagnosis was pancreatitis. One of the symptoms is complete loss of appetite.

There was no way to reverse the attack or cure the disease. She was a tiny cat to begin with. Lizzie had always been fed Iams or Science Diet, She did not care for anything but dry cat food, and seemed to display none of the ‘usual’ causes of this disease. The perhaps monthly teeny nibble at a spoon of peanut butter or maybe just a few licks.  It could be an entire bite at a pork rind, whoa. So I consider, What the hell?
Cat Pancreatitis is a bit different from the occurrence in dogs or people. It’s not breed, age or species specific. The main symptom is loss of appetite. She looked at her food bowl, knowing she needed to eat, but having no desire to do so.

Lizzie Borden LOVED peanut butter

Lizzie Borden LOVED peanut butter. She wouldn’t go near fish, chicken, beef or any other people food.
Outside of the occasional pork rind.

Lizzie has been an even closer friend since the onset of my  Transverse Myelitis in August. This amazing kitty was only 9 years old, and has been a part of the family since rescued from a shelter in Michigan, more than eight years ago. She spent every day, virtually every minute, hanging out with yours truly these last six months. Both of us together in this 10×15 foot room since having to leave Reno, finding help for my own disease.

Yes, all living things must die. At the age of 9 my best friend, my only friend here, went far too soon

Lizzifer went peacefully, while I stroked her head and told her what a good kitty she was.
Good-bye Lizzie Borden, my sweet, funny, surprising, psychic, 3:00 a.m. rodeo-running, cat-tree climbing, purring, head-butting best friend. You always knew exactly what the situation was. You knew when the pain of this disease became excruciating. You jumped on the bed, curled against me and turned into the purring furry friend which always caused me to calm and smile. You stayed there until I felt better.
Suicide consumed my mind, more intensely than in a long time. Of course you can’t tell people this. It scares them.

Lizzie, my love and consoler, Say Meow to Bast. Find lots of yummy things that you want to eat.

The pain of losing you is more than I could ever express with these words or the voluminous interminable tears.
I’ll have you in my heart forever little beastie. No other furry companions over the years has made this heart so full of delight, laughter and bemusement. A freckled nose, a peanut butter toe. Perfect markings of the Tortie Terror, but never a scratch or bite to this human cat-mommy.

Lizzifer, as my roomie called her. Half Jewish.

Lizzie is half jewish and half Follower of Bast. Here is Lizzifer waiting for dreidel and peanut butter gelt.





~Miss Noir









Here Kitty Kitty Kitty

Re- Posted from some other blog…written by some other person. Damn, they seem so familiar too 😉

Here Kitty Kitty Kitty.

via  Here Kitty Kitty Kitty.

Read the original at the Beetlejuice 2014 at the link above,

I has pictures and every-thang!

Last week my therapist told me I should adopt Cat as my totem animal. This is the same guy who told me he believed in aliens a few weeks ago. Not as in ‘there must be life out there some place’ but the whole ancient astronauts building the pyramids and making crop circles. Pulled my jaw up off the floor and said ‘Did you ever consider that when a civilization gets to a certain point somebody says ‘Hey, I am sick and tired of these goddamned square buildings?.’
Think I hurt his feelings but since a therapist is basically just a person you pay to be your friend, he can deal with it.

This is the So You’re A Cat backstory. Make sure your coffee is still hot.
I’ve been a Raven for more years than I can remember (so up until 2012 at least).
Think may know I’m diagnosed bi-polar (about 10 years ago). Along with a list of other disorders; which I was only made aware of after looking at my intake/nurse’s form and hospital records during that lovely 2 month hospital stay last year. It’s my expert opinion that my diagnosis consists of two disorders and they go together, but what do I know?
Have only had 3 manic episodes in my life; none caused me to re-paint the house, chain smoke or lose weight though. Have what is called Dysphoric Mania.

So the point is: Prior to being diagnosed as anything but a garden variety neurotic with Major Depressive Disorder and Anxiety Disorder (this is what happens when your father is a psychiatrist) I KNEW when an ‘episode’ of severe depression, and all of my worst symptoms, was impending.
I hear cats.

They’re saying ‘Banish the dog! Banish the dog!
I Hear Cat Voices. This isn’t the pin I carried. This graphic almost appalls me with it’s bad design. I feel a lawsuit coming on.

Not like Son of Sam; Snowball isn’t telling me to kill the dog or the neighbors. Just a faint meowing of a kitty coming from somewhere outside my line of sight. As I’ve always had a cat or cats it didn’t seem that bizarre, and has become a family joke. A few close friends are also aware and are cheerfully allowed to make puckish comments about the kitty thing. When I owned a retail store there was a button available that I carried, ‘I Hear Cat Voices.’ Sonofabitch I sold hundreds of those. Makes me wonder.

So I get this a new shrink here, as I moved. The guy is humorless and has no business as a clinician. Only see him for meds so let it slide. Made the mistake of mentioning the cat thing to this I-take-every-word-literally fool while he was filling out his 50 question paperwork on our first visit. Then he asks me how often I hallucinate.
Back up. What? I don’t SEE cats, and on occasion I have heard cats and there’s actually a cat outside the door.
I DO check every time though. Hmmmm. Also thinking: after everything I’ve told him: what I’d like to work on, past traumas that still bother me, how come mom and dad did like me best?
Why is he fixating on the cat thing?
My second visit he leans back in his chair and says, with his thick accent, and out of the blue, “Tell me about these cats.” All I could think of was the Thomas Dolby song Blinded me with Science with the line ‘Tell me about your childhood!’

Tell me about these cats…

So back to last week: Was telling my therapist about my loony psychiatrist and the cat obsession. He cracked up and said in all seriousness ‘I think you should adopt the cat as your spirit animal.’
Thought about it for a few seconds and said ‘You’re right. I’ve always wanted to come back as one of my cats. Sure it’s a paradox, but so am I.’

I don’t like milk but this shouldn’t be a hindrance. My own cat doesn’t like milk. Unless it’s in the form of ice cream. Whoa, me too!

Which breed am I? Cool cat? Hep cat? Am I registered. Damn, at least I’ve been spayed.

Kitties and Sunshine and Effexor,

Transverse Myelitis: My Feet Are Baked Potatoes!

Originally posted at

Hope this sparks insight, introspection, anger or hilarity at your own experiences with either a chronic painful disease and/or  clinical depression What happens when the two collide?

via Transverse Myelitis: My Feet Are Baked Potatoes!

Don’t Jump! I’m Still Looking for a Rope

steep cliff of suicidal thoughts

Why can’t someone with a gripping familiarity with an affliction find words to guide another suffering the same? To help a brother or sister in arms, aching with a familiar pain? It makes me uncomfortable. Not another’s pain, that part I understand intellectually and emotionally. The discomfort comes from my perceived inability to offer succor and relief.

While I have real empathy and an affinity born of traveling the same shadowed passages, my responses or advice never feel helpful. Not completely.
This must be what family and friends feel when I’ve stumbles to the precipice.

My responses to someone with suicidal ideation aren’t flippant, but after uttering or writing the words, they seem hollow.
How can this be when I know the ropes? And pills? And a closed garage? It feels like a book written by someone who has never experienced the hopeless unending agony themselves.  Ever read or been subject to the fitness guru who has never had a weight problem? How about the jackasses who write, or tell you, that if you just tapered off, or didn’t drink so much, you’d be fine.
Don’t believe it’s a coincidence that all of these disorders manifest in the physical.

Unless you’re a very good actor, the people closest to you will notice the despair. If you’re not used to hiding your feelings then ALL of these illnesses are immediately glaring to anyone.

I can’t hide the weight, but dress and hold myself like a beautiful sexy woman. I can’t hide being an alcoholic, but I don’t pick up a drink even when my ass is falling off.

I can and do hide my depression. Most of the time. The tears can’t always be stopped at will. The mental anguish induces a physical reflex that cannot be hidden 24 hours a day.

There is nowhere to go at this point. No option seems worthwhile or helpful. We’re broken and when someone offers to help fix us they don’t know what to do.

So I’ve come to the conclusion that the best thing in the world is the simplest.

Listen to another’s pain, their specific problems, the reasoning which brings them to thoughts of suicide.
Listen without comment. Without advice. Without condemnation of any kind. Especially without inane cheerful platitudes.

I think this is something everyone requires. Another human being who takes the time to hear us. Allowing the words and tears and snot and pain to flood from mind and body. Those of us already walking on glass need this something more than an average individual.

We need someone who cares. Especially when we are afraid to let the sickness have a voice. We need someone who takes the time to listen.

~R Noir

Listening to:
Stubborn Love
By: The Lumineers
Album: The Lumineers

Friday’s Rocking Rumors!

A Freaky Friday to my fellow depressives, dipsomaniacs, Transverse Myelitis and injured spinal cord affected patients, random loonies, Bitchin’ Bloggers, manic musicians, and Your Name Here!

It’s an 80’s kinda day so here’s a blast from your collective conscious past! I’m MC RappinRaven leaving you with this Rumor of the day to kick-start those Meds and wake up the Feds. Put on your Tinfoil chapeau and let’s dance, roll, hobble or drool to …. Timex Social club!

Catch ya on the flip side my hep mental magicians.

~miss b
RappinRaven of Reno