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Charlie, I’m Sorry

October 29, 2017

I cannot carry on with what those fucks did to that poor baby.  I’ve tried.  I have nine, yes nine different drafts of things I was going to say but fuck it.  My blog, my perogative and I guess I really just can’t when it comes to kids.  Sorry.  Lets just get to the point succinctly.

The boy is dead.  He suffered unbelievable pain and degradation before he died and all of you thank whatever god you believe in that he was finally and mercifully released from the hell that was his life.

I hope the pieces of shit that did it get the death penalty and I hope they somehow fuck the drugs up and they feel immeasurable amounts of pain before they die a thousand years from now because the justice system is a piece of shit.  It’s all we’ve got, on both sides of the border, but it’s a piece of shit.

Instead, I’m going to tell you something personal that happened over the last couple of days.  I don’t want sympathy, I want you to understand why my psychiatrist hooked me up with therapy horses and why sometimes even the best intentions are not enough. Not by a long shot.

A7221 came in the second day I was at the farm.  I remember  because I was giving a sorrel mare a beauty treatment at the time and was told to put her away and clear the aisle for this mare coming in.  And boy did she come.  That girl had murder on her mind and she didn’t care who it was. She had come in, in foal.  Newly in foal but in foal.  Now, the owner of the farm is a good man.  A genuinely good man.  He has human faults like every other person, but he absolutely hates to see an animal in distress.  In the day I had been there he had seen me calm a very freaked out horse and asked if I thought I could handle A7221.  With all he confidence I could muster, because being that the farm owner is a man I was afraid of him, I said sure.  He gets that I can’t be around people, he has never been weird about it, he always makes sure I have an out somewhere and that he is never to close to me and he just gets it.  He also gets that I am some weird fucking horse empath or something.

Well, the very first order of business once I got her into a stall was a name because I am not calling a horse by a number like it is in Auschwitz, and after watching her for a bit I called her Charlie Brown.  Charlie brown because she had obviously had the football pulled out from under her one to many times.

Charlie had been bred and born to be a show horse.  Unfortunately she did not have the look and she had long cannon bones and a popcorn lip.  None of these things are good if you are looking for a show horse.  I have no idea what went on in Charlie’s life up to the point she showed up at the farm.  I can tell you that she was so afraid for her head that she would get violent if you tried to touch it.  That tells me she was hit about the face, a lot.   Her skin would actually walk across her back if you managed to touch her without getting swung on in those first couple of days which tells me she got hit about the body a lot.  the scars on her flanks told me she’d been spurred into submission when being ridden as did the scars at the corners of her mouth.  The farm owner picked her up in the states at a meat auction because she was pregnant and he just could not bear it because that is who he is and luckily he can afford the largess of being that guy.

Now, I can come and go as I please but once “Charlie showed up I found myself spending hours trying to get her to just take a piece of apple out of my hand.  The owners wife, who is another wonderful person commented on it, wondering out loud if she ever would trust me enough to do it.  I had my doubts.  I’d just hang in her stall for the first while, far away from her and talk.   I told her I got it, that I knew what it was like to be that afraid, that sometimes the only thing you could do was fight, but that she didn’t have to fight with me because I wouldn’t hurt her and if she’d let me I’d protect her and the little life growing in her.

I told her about my life, told her about you guys and the no kill shelter and how you had helped me come back to myself at least a little and that everybody needs a friend.  Maybe not a lot of friends, but just one that you could count on no matter what.  I told her about my dogs and my kid and that there were lots of other horses she could hang out with if she would just calm down a little.  I never faced her when I talked to her.  I made sure I could see her out of the corner of my eye just in case, but I never looked at her straight on.

So one morning I was telling her about my car being a piece of shit and acting up and I suddenly felt a muzzle on my hair and I thought fuck she’s gonna take a bite, but she didn’t.  She nuzzled my hair for a second and then she just stood there.  So I turned about an eighth of a turn and waited for her to bolt to the other side of the stall.  But she didn’t.

I fished the fresh piece of apple I brought every single day and put it out flat in my hand.  Charlie contemplated that apple for probably five minutes and then she looked into my eyes as she took it.  And ate it.  Her eyes were not bulging like they had been since she came, and she had he softest eyes.  and the saddest.  Like she was waiting for me to pull the football away.  I reached a hand out close to her neck, nowhere near her face and she let me pat her neck.

The next morning I went back.  I said good morning to all the horses and was greeted with the nickers of hello which is how they talk.  Charlie was way at the other end of the barn so it took me a minute to get there and she stood facing the rails for the first time since she’d come and she nickered at me.   This horse had not made a sound since the day she’d come into the barn and she had just said good morning.  I opened the door to her stall and instead of heading to the back corner with her back to me like she always did, she stuck her face into my sweatshirt to see if I had another apple.  Of course I had an apple and that day, she got to eat the whole fucking thing.

I went and grabbed some grooming supplies because she desperately needed to be groomed but it was with much trepidation because Charlie had been hit by things and I had no idea what those things may have been.  I let her see the brush and smell it and bite it and when I thought she was ready I but it on her side.  She flinched but she allowed it and I brushed her till she glistened.  I brushed her to sleep actually.  Now, Charlie was never going to win any beauty awards in the horse world but she was far from hideous.   A little muley in the face maybe but in a cute way.

I’d gotten her tamed down enough so that it was safe to move her to the pasture where the pregnant mares go and I did.  we had some geldings out and when they ran the fence to see the new horse she freaked a little and gave me a scar on my Achilles tendon I will have forever, but it was fear not maliciousness and I limped up the rest of the way to the paddock with my heal bleeding pretty good and when I got there I told her what a good girl she was and patted her neck which had become her favorite thing.

Charlie had to have needles sometimes and the first time I had to catch her to give her one, it took me an hour and seven minutes.  I had done something stupid and let her see the needle.  I might as well have shown her a harpoon.  She thought I’d let her down, I know it.  But I caught her eventually and calmed her down and she never even knew she got the needle.  After that it was cake.  She came when I called her and she always got her apple when we were done doing whatever.

There is a picture on one of the owners phones of Charlie with her head on my shoulder standing in the middle of an acre of paddock.

Charlie turned up sick Friday.  Colic.  Pretty much a death sentence but I tried.  I tried, I swear to god.  I walked Charlie for hours and then I walked her some more.  I never stopped talking to her,  I never stopped praising ever step she took.  And the whole time her belly got bigger, and bigger and I knew it was a torsion but I refused to let my brain process that information.  I told myself it was food colic and we could oil her and get stuff moving and she’d be fine.  And the vet did.  The farm owner was beside himself and said do whatever the vet could do to save her.  She stood for me while we tubed her and poured a gallon of oil down into her stomach, she stood for me while she was injected with pain killer, she stood for me resting her head on my shoulder so she wouldn’t lay down because she really wanted to lay down.  I was still walking at 830 Saturday night.  The owner spotted me and said he and his brother would take the night shift and if I wouldn’t mind coming to walk her early in the morning they would appreciate it.  I was there at 6:15 am.  Charlie died from a torsion soon after I left her.  There wasn’t anything I could have done or the vet could have done or god himself if he was a thing could have done, as soon as her gut twisted, Charlie was on borrowed time.  She hung on long enough so that I didn’t have to see her die and I believe that as much as I believe I am sitting here writing this blog.  She walked for me because I asked her too.  She hung on for me because I asked her too.  And she was still walking so that I could see her walking when I left so that I would leave and I didn’t have to watch her die.   I found her of course and I gently wrapped the chains that needed to be wrapped around her hocks so that we could get her out of where she was.  Someone else offered but I refused to let anyone else touch her.  I did it and made sure it was right so we could get her up into the bucket without banging her around to much because even though I was well aware she was quite dead, I didn’t want anyone to hurt her ever again.

I hope where ever Charlie is, there is a nice woman who looks like me that brings her apples everyday and tells her not to listen to the other horses if they say she is ugly because they are just jealous.  I hope she get brushed to sleep a lot and gets talked to all the time. I hope she follows that woman around a field and as often as not puts her head on the woman’s shoulder and that she nickers hello because she wants to be friends with people now.  I hope she gets told how awesome she is, because she was.  Awesome.  Broken, but awesome.  And I hope that fucking number is no longer on her beautiful haircoat.  She isn’t A7221 she is Charlie Brown and wherever she is, they better remember that.

 

ReallyBigMeanDog Peacing the fuck out

 

 

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A Correlative Study Between Jim Jones and Donald Trump. No, I’m Not Kidding.

October 13, 2017

Hello my lovelies.  Your very wayward Queen is back since I actually have something to say.  My in house psychic locked me in the tower of London and tried to make an escape.  She is being dealt with accordingly.  Not like Henry the VIII accordingly, but accordingly.

So lets get to it shall we.  Raise your hands if you remember Jim Jones, the Jonestown Massacre, The Guyana Tragedy, or the peoples temple.  I’m betting cuz I’m a betting kind of Queen that most of you raised your hands.  This was waaaaay back in the day, but it isn’t something easily forgotten.

As a quick refresher, Jim Jones was a shyster/preacher/prophet with a huge god complex.  He actually probably started out with good intentions although who the fuck knows since he was a complete sociopath by the time it was all over but just for brevities sake let’s go with that.

He was originally ordained as a Disciples of Christ pastor and believed that communism was the social order most in tune with gods law.   Jones pretended to sympathize with the African American population in America even though his father and grandfather were both very high up in the KKK and indoctrinated Jones to its teachings from the time he could begin to comprehend.  He stumbled upon faith healing at a seventh day Baptist Church and discovered the amount of money that faith healing could bring in.  It was at that point that Mr. Jones suddenly was gifted with the power of healing the afflicted.

In the early 70’s Jones rejected the bible and denouncing a sky god that in his words was no god at all.  Jones also began preaching that he was the reincarnation of Gandhi,Jesus, Buddha and Vladimir Lennon  . Former Temple member Hue Fortson, Jr. quoted Jones as saying, “What you need to believe in is what you can see … If you see me as your friend, I’ll be your friend. As you see me as your father, I’ll be your father, for those of you that don’t have a father … If you see me as your savior, I’ll be your savior. If you see me as your God, I’ll be your God. (Wikipedia)

He said there was no heaven and if they wanted one they would have to make it down here.  He teeter tottered between Agnostic and Atheist depending on his mood during different interviews.  He didn’t believe in god any more than I believe in unicorns.   That didn’t stop him however from fleecing his congregation out of most of all their life’s savings, not that it would matter the way things played out.

It was fear of the IRS and Government intervention that drove Jones to Guyana to start his peoples Temple.  Forced labor, substandard food,  gun wielding guards to make sure nobody tried to leave in he middle of the night.  One person stating that if the guards didn’t get you the snakes would.  Physical, emotional and sexual abuse was rampant as reported in an expose which is the main reason that Jones abruptly booked it for Guyana.

Jones declared that since he was the supreme being he had decided that all marriages were now null and void being based on lust and he would find mates more suitable for people.  In reality Jones was grabbing everybody by the pussy and simply didn’t want to get called out on it.  The non compliant ones were fed drugs to make them more amenable to the status quo.   Jimmy’s door swung both ways although he told all that would listed that acts of homosexuality disgusted him and he only did it to connect the male members of the congregation with him spiritually.  Since most of the men likely screamed things like OH MY GOD MAKE IT STOP I suppose it worked.

Jones was also a huuuuuuge drug addict and insane, although his insanity became completely off the hook fucking nuts right close to the end.

In November of 1978 Congressman Leo Ryan led a fact finding mission regarding the myriad of complaints he had received regarding human rights violations.   Since Jim Jones had always been known for  a really good show, at first glance the congressman honestly thought most of the allegations were unfounded.  Two days later however a man  by the name of Don Sly for reasons of his own attacked the congressman with a knife.  At this point the congressman decided to peace the fuck out and invited anybody that wanted out to get on the bus.  Well, tractor wagon.  There were 15 temple members that decided to take that opportunity to get out of crazy land and went along.

One of the people who said they wanted to go home was a plant who was totally not named Steve Bannon or anything drew a weapon and opened fire on the people boarding the plane.  The personal Jones body guards had already opened fire on the congressman and his people.  Congressman Ryan, three reporters and one of the temple defectors were killed on the airfield.  People who survived the initial attack were future Congresswoman Jackie Spiere, then a staff member for Ryan; Richard Dwyer, the from the U.S. Embassy at Georgetown; Bob Flick, a producer for NBC; Steve Sung, an NBC sound engineer; Tim Reiterman, a San Francisco Examiner reporter; Ron Javers, a San Francisco Chronicle reporter; Charles Krause, a reporter for the Washington Post; and several defecting Temple members( *Wikipedia)

Right after that, 909 people drank the Kool-Aid 304 of those children who didn’t have a choice as to whether or not they wanted to die.  Anybody that said “I think I’d like to nope the fuck out of this really stupid idea” was summarily shot.  Jones himself had someone shoot him because he didn’t have the balls to do it himself and his hands were too small to hold the cup of Kool-Aid.

So, let us recap.  Jim Jones was a really big fish in a really small pond when he started his ministry in the States.  His delusions of grandeur led him to believe that he could create a society where he was basically god and could do whatever he wanted to anybody at any time without fear of repercussion.  He lied to his followers about what he was doing with their money, what he was doing with their spouses, what he was running away from, what they were getting themselves into, and how much he know about running his utopian society.   His followers were basically mindless sheep that thought whatever he said had to be true and when it turned out it wasn’t he blamed it on outside forces like the news, or bad hombres, or non believers,  or when his faith healing failed he blamed the person for losing their faith and thus sealing their own fate.  He decided that he could do whatever he wanted to whoever he wanted because he was such hotshot that not only did they like it, they invited it.  Once his house of cards began to crumble, instead of admitting defeat or that he may have been wrong he simply got his sheep to kill themselves so that nobody would ever know that all the shit he had shovelled had been nothing but that.  A big stinking pile of shit.   If he was orange (he wasn’t, at least not in any pictures I can find) I’d call him Donald.  God knows he’s gotten enough people to drink the Kool-Aid.

Please discuss.  Also note that information I gathered that I was not aware of has been cited because that is what you are supposed to do.  Cite your sources.  It’s kind of a thing you should do.

That’s it for tonight.  RBMD peacing the fuck out.

 


The Wheels on Whatever Go Round and Round

October 18, 2014

Yes, I know I said I wasn’t blogging today, but I have a concussion so I forgot-somewhere around here

Oh hai there. Before you get mad Silly, I know I said I wasn’t doing a regular blog today. This is NOT a regular blog so it doesn’t count. I love semantics, do you guys love semantics?

Apparently the twitter wars are escalating. Now, I meant what I said about ceasing fire and holding the line, and you my fine soldiers have for the most part adhered to the ceasefire. I thank you. Turns out I was right too, because the silence is driving it that shall not be named slowly more insane than it already is.

Now accounts are getting hacked. My friend Janet had her account hacked. For most people this was cause for alarm, but for me, all I could see were visions of millions of people hunched over their keyboards or iphones or tablets, frantically deleting all of their DM’s in case they got hacked. That mental picture cracked me up so badly I had to walk away just in case I did my head any more damage. It’s funny because A) it’s probably true and B) nobody knows what side is doing the hacking or if it has anything what-so-ever to do with the twitter wars. I’m sorry but it is hysterical. Again, to those I didn’t say it to on twitter, I’m sorry you got hacked. It has happened to me before, but it was just some idiot that wanted to put up adds for cheap knock off watches on my feed so no biggy. My ex brother in law told me the best way to prevent Hacking is to use at least 2 numbers, 1 uppercase letter and 2 symbols in your password. The pentagon could not get into my password at this point. Since I mentioned weaponized anthrax the other day I’m sure they have been trying. So just to speed things along, it was a joke pentagon guys, it was a statement on how hard it is to get prescription narcotics in Canada as opposed to the above mentioned anthrax.

Since I promised Silly no regular blog today I have had to become creative. So I am going to tell you a bunch of totally random stuff that has no bearing on anything other than I find it interesting.

My super sekrit crush is on twitter and he follows me back.

I blame Charlie Sheen every time something bad happens on twitter but he has yet to comment as to whether or not it is actually his fault.

I have liked Norman Reedus since “Six Ways To Sunday” and it was just a lucky fluke that I watched the walking dead and he was in it. I got someone to take my copy of Boondock saints to Comic con for me and get him to sign it. The person I asked to take it was so star struck that when Norman asked his name, instead of saying it’s for Kelly he said his name and now the kids name is forever adorned on my copy of the Boondock Saints. Sometimes agoraphobia sucks so bad. That would be one of those times.

My psychiatrist has suggested getting one of my dogs certified as a comfort animal so I can take them with me if I need to go somewhere. It’s like any disability dog, exempt from no dog rules so I am told. I have heard that most places won’t allow dogs though unless they are obviously a dog for the blind so I don’t think I will do it.

I haven’t been in a restaurant in almost 6 years. The last time I was in one, I got a glass of beer smashed over my head for complaining about always having to go so I could drive because I don’t drink. The place was full and nobody said a word or called the police.

I had a fish named fluffy but he died. he was a purple beta. I would like to get a fish tank and some fish. Pretty fish like guppies and stuff. I find them very soothing. My psychiatrist has a fish tank and I like to watch the fish.

I have a guinea pig named Taco and he helps we write blogs sometimes. you can’t understand anything he writes, but he doesn’t have opposable thumbs so I fix it for him. He likes to hang out on my keyboard.

I have a pig named Albert. A real live big pink pig. He was on his way to get turned into bacon and he got out of the truck somehow. I found him near the corner of my property and enticed him home with donuts. I have had him ever since. He seems much happier not being bacon.

I love pop-tarts. My favorites are cherry and strawberry and they have to have frosting. Actually until the other day I had no idea they didn’t come without frosting. Why anybody would want a pop-tart without frosting is just beyond my comprehension. They don’t have Cherry pop tarts in Canada.

I hate peanut butter. So, so wrong.

I only own two pairs of shoes. That apparently makes me “Not a girl.” I have never seen the point of billions of pairs of shoes. I also can’t wear high heels because of damage to my feet and legs so maybe that’s why.

I own every single season of all the law and orders. Criminal Intent was my favorite because Vincent D’onofrio was completely believable as a major case detective. SVU was my least favorite but I needed them so I had the whole set.

I still have the stuffed bear my first boyfriend bought me.

I almost never watch TV, but I like the noise in the background. I do watch hockey, football, the walking dead and American Horror Story.

The dogs have ripped holes in every single dish towel that I own. Apparently they are great for tug of war.

They are looking at me right now like they know I just told on them.

I love video games. They are my second favorite thing to do ever. This obviously being my first favorite thing. I got custody of my systems and games when the ex got arrested. I have never met a game I didn’t like except for Role Playing Games and Massive Multiplayer online games. Other than that, I love them all. Especially horror games. The evil within just came out and it looks soooooo awesome. If any of you game, maybe you can let me borrow it sometime?

While I seldom watch television, I kept custody of my movie collection and I like to watch those sometimes. I like horror movies and true crime movies the best. I have a VHS copy of fatal vision, the movie about Jeffrey MacDonald the green beret that killed his pregnant wife and kids. I also have the VHS of small sacrifices, the Diane Downs movie. I have loved true crime since I was a kid.

And there you have it. A bunch of totally random facts about yours truly. Not a normal blog. Just sayin’

Love you guys
See you tomorrow.

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