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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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The Banana Peel of Death

Some night I’ll drink one too many glasses of wine and take one too many Benzos. Well, assuming I decide to drink.

Just have a feeling.

Is it suicide then? Not sure. The Magic 8 Ball says Conditions Cloudy. Check Later.

The older I get the more it seems plausible; so many whose deaths were ruled as accidental were really not so. Maybe accidental on that particular day, but not in total.
Hollywood Babylon makes it the reality it is, and takes the romance out. Good reading if you’re planning on a non-accidental going away party.
Or a party of one sans invitation.

My tentative plans involve going out someplace where family and/or friends will not have to deal with finding me. Well, finding me and cleaning up the aftermath actually. One of the benefits of too many forensic/scientific shows and books is foresight. I’m such a giver.

I know what will happen after checking out. It will be a goddamned mess. Pills or a bullet it doesn’t matter. It’s a horror show for whoever finds you and has to clean that shit up.

I’m thinking hotel. Big hotel with lots of staff and a good reputation. They’ve a familiarity with these things. They have experience AND those big-ass commercial steam-cleaners.

In the last nine months my face has aged almost 10 years. It’s been the hardest year. I read that rubbing bananas on your teeth will whiten them. Now there’s some stupidity whose author could use a dirt nap.

Looking in the mirror makes me cringe. The lines of worry, dry crêpe spots from stress and creases from sleeplessness create a relief map. It’s hideous and sad.

So when does that desire to escape the reality which is slowly killing you turn the dial to Broil?

When does your subconscious slide into the Oops position?

That would be just fucking perfect. With my luck it would be Benzos and a bowl of ice cream. Found two days later covered in chocolate, caramel sauce, sliced banana, strawberry jam and Spanish peanuts. Oh, and kitty bite marks. I could do a Lupe Valez and a Marie Provost.
I gotta stop indulging in those damned noir and vintage films. Or the ice cream.

No matter what, I’d go out smiling

The banana peel of death.

I like that.

~miss b

The Sharpest Knife

knife gun drugs

Sharp serrated insidious
Foolish mind and heart
Believed the pain was gone for good
Again I feel it start

The daily choices made by me
Keening call of quiet dark
No one who can listen
Or thinks it’s but a lark

I watched my father leave here
My mind shaded  before
This horror show just added
A new act to the floor

I watched a dearest old love
Giddy with new glee
Buy champagne and roses
For a girl who once was me

I’ve dreamed of choosing darkness
It seems most of my life
The longer I live harder I work
To glance past that sharp knife

There is no answer to my cries
The tears and damaged soul
If not for my beloved child
I’d say Fuck Getting Old.

Tomorrow brings more silence
Aloneness and that grief
People dead on every plane
My soul dead sans relief

I’m really very tired
Of keeping up the face
To keep a smile in the voice
When others call my place

But deep inside it’s grinding
The blade upon the stone
Sharpening myriad reasons
To call that knife my own

~miss b

bi-polar in a straight world

So today I spent two hours at the Social Security offices followed by four hours at Washoe County Mental Health.
Decided to try and accomplish two odious tasks in one day.

This is to make up for a serious crash and burn that occurred during the prior 48 hours.
Naturally neither venue provided a satisfactory answer to any of my questions. I do feel the need to bathe in Lysol however. Am I the only person on SSD who fucking bathes and wears neat clothing?!

Social Security: Yes Virginia I’m due the back benefits. No, no one knows when this will be fiscally determined or paid. My caseworker is not in on Fridays.
Doogie Howser (the eerily pre-pubescent looking employee with whom I dealt) said it has something to do with my applying for SSI almost two years ago. Which I did after Social Security insisted I do so. It was the same day and appointment as the application for SSD. I was never granted SSI benefits nor did I ever hear anything back about it. I asked Doogie what the hell SSI actually was. I still don’t know.

Doogie suggested to just keep ‘trying’ to contact my caseworker.
Exact quote: “it’s her job”.

Well hell at least there IS a mysterious caseworker’s name now.
Bottom Line: Two hours to obtain the following information; Mrs. Reyna is my close personal caseworker and by the way she doesn’t work on Fridays.
Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.

Washoe County Mental Health: Stopped by to pick up a scrip and decided it was imperative to see somebody to help deal with
1. The overwhelming grief and guilt over my dad’s death last week
2. The horrendous gag reflex brought on when I was taken off the anti-depressants and started instead on the lithium last month. After all if I ever begin dating again this would present quite a problem.

I see a nurse and my blood pressure is quite high. No shit. Dad’s having a slight problem calling in my prescription for that medication.
Been off of it for two or three days.

I see a doc: he is grumpy and harried. He reviews my meds and takes me completely off the lithium. He is not my regular doc because guess what?
My doctor doesn’t work on Fridays.
Hmmm this is starting to sound suspiciously familiar.

New doc ups the xanax (hell, already did that on my own. like ‘duh’ dude) and prescribes another anti-depressant.
No counseling, no referral to any resources. Another in the line of pointless medications.
I’m told by a nurse and a doctor to wait at least 90 days, maybe six months, before seeking grief counseling.
What. The. Fuck? This sounds like bullshit to me but hell I’m the neophyte here not the ordained expert.

Bottom Line: Four hours to obtain the following information; today’s doc hates his job, writes me a scrip for another pointless med and prays that I don’t stroke out on the carpet after reviewing the nurses notes.
Oh and by the way Dr. Yasur (that’s my baby) doesn’t work on Fridays.
Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.

On the bright side I did avoid Lizzie Borden’s entreaties to play poker for six hours and picked up some yummy bread and sausages at Trader Joes.
This is seriously wrong. I’m reduced to living life vicariously through Lizzie Borden.
My cat.