My cat is missing. :(

Posted on November 17, 2015 by luckyotter

Not a good picture, but the best one of him I could find. He’s always moving, so it’s hard to get a good shot.

In the past 4 months, the number of cats living with me has gone from 5 (plus one dog) to just 2. In July, Chunks passed away suddenly, and then Mr. Biggles, Babycat, and Dexter (the dog) all went to live with my daughter and her fiance. My housemate, Stacey, took her cat Isaiah to Florida with her last month (and by the way, I’m still looking for another housemate–the guy who was here moved to the upstairs apartment).

Now Sheldon, my tuxedo cat, has been gone for two days. Stacey actually trained him to come when he’s called and since she left, whenever I call him in for the night, he comes running. So I know something’s wrong because he didn’t come home last night, and wasn’t here in this morning and still isn’t back. 😦 I’ve called and called him, and looked everywhere and he’s nowhere to be seen. I’m starting to get really worried. Sheldon has lived with me for 4 years, going on 5, and while it’s not the first time he’s been gone this long, it’s the first time since Stacey was here.
So everyone, please keep Sheldon in your prayers that he returns safely.

ETA: About two hours after I posted this, Sheldon showed up wanting dinner! Now I’m gonna kill him.
Thanks, everyone! 🙂

Sometimes a dog.

Posted on October 4, 2015 by luckyotter

I wish I’d snapped a picture of Khyna while under my care, but this photo of another dog looks very much like her.

Sometimes an animal, in this case a beautiful German Shepherd/Golden Retriever mix, can turn your day around and make you realize what is really important.

All morning a strange golden dog with pointed ears had been nosing around my yard. She sat on my porch whimpering and started to scratch at the door. I looked outside to see what was going on, and I saw her sitting there at the door, looking at me with sad brown eyes. She started to whine a little, and then got up and walked around my porch, looking confused.

I squatted down in front of her. She seemed friendly. Definitely someone’s pet. I noticed she was wearing a collar with some metal tags. Her name and address was embossed on one of the tags: Khyna (pronounced Keena) allowed me to look, and then licked my face! She needed me help her get home. For some reason, she (or God) had chosen me!

I noticed the address was in a new development up the road, not far away at all. I happened to have a retractable leash that we had used for Dexter (who never could learn to walk on a leash properly) and Khyna sat down obediently while I attached it to her collar.

I liked this dog. I decided that if the owners didn’t want her anymore, I would clean her up (she was all muddy from having been out in the nonstop rain) and take her in until other arrangements could be made, or I might just decide to keep her myself.

We walked together in the pouring rain. I didn’t even mind the gloom or getting wet. Khyna stayed right by my side, not pulling on the leash or hanging back. She stayed slightly ahead, as if leading me, even though I knew now where she lived.

We turned into the development and she moved a little faster. I think she recognized we were close to her home. As we approached the cul-de-sac where her owner’s home was, a man pulled up in a Jeep and rolled down the window. He was grinning like he won the Lotto.

“OH MY GOD! You found Khyna! My wife has been worried sick about her. I just bought her flowers to cheer her up but now I can give her the flowers and Khyna back too!”
“She’s a beautiful dog. Very sweet too,” I said.
“That she is,” the man said proudly. I could tell these people loved this dog and she had just gotten lost and come to me for help getting home.
“How long has she been gone?”
“Since last night around 8 PM. She likes to run off sometimes.”
The man pulled into his driveway and I unhooked Khyna from her leash. She bounded off into the open garage as the man opened the side door for her to go in the house.
He turned back to me. “Thank you so much. You have no idea how much this means to us.”

There was no cash reward, but the happiness and look of relief on the man’s face was all the reward I needed. And his wife would be happy too.
I walked home through the rain, feeling like I’d just won a million dollars. The sun might as well have been shining.
Sometimes doing something kind for a stranger can turn depression around.
Especially if it involves an animal.

7 common habits of narcissistic pet lovers

Posted on September 20, 2015 by luckyotter

Here’s a humorous look at the 7 ways narcissists can be AWESOME pet parents. This listicle from Getleashedmag.com isn’t intended to be taken TOO seriously, but there’s truth here too.

My malignant narcissist ASPD ex, who should be locked away and not allowed to get within 100 feet of any human, is actually the first person I would trust with my kitties should I ever have to leave them for a few days. He despises people (and admits it) but seems to genuinely love animals.

7 Common Habits of Narcissistic Pet Lovers
Wonder if it’s possible to love your pet and be a narcissist? Of course it is!
By Leslie Phelan

There is a misconception about narcissists that says they’re way too into themselves to properly love an animal companion, but there’s a special breed of narcissist whose condition includes room for animal love. Sound like you or someone you know? Read on:

Narcissists love two things: themselves, and anything that could be used as extensions of themselves. What better self-extension than a cute and adorable furry thing that will love you back unconditionally?

Do you express love for your pet in a way that might look to others like evidence of an overly narcissistic lean within your personality? Observe yourself (you know you want to); and see if any of these key narcissistic pet lover indicators point at gorgeous little you:

1. Is your appearance everything?
Do you try on three different jacket-hat combos before stepping out, even to the park? Do you color-coordinate the dog’s collar with your scarf?

2. Are you obsessed with your own reflection?
Do you hold your cat in your arms over the bathroom vanity and compare the flecks in your eyeball irises for extended periods? When you walk past windows with your dog on leash, are you always glancing sideways to admire how lovely and magazine-ready you two look?

3. Do you use your pet as a prop to justify yet another selfie?
You know the drill: scoop up the animal, pose pretty, take a few snaps, choose the best one and post it with a caption about the animal, when really it’s to show off how adorable you look WITH said animal. C’mon . . . we’ve all been here. And the pics are priceless.

4. Do you make everything about you?
Do you listen with the intent to respond, more than with the intent to understand? When someone is talking about a cute thing their pet does, are you bursting at the seams to trump their story with a better, cuter, more special story about your own?

5. Do you bring your pet along, even at less-than-appropriate times?
Most people will agree that it’s the more the merrier when it comes to dogs at parties, but do you ever find yourself purposefully ignoring hints that you maybe shouldn’t bring your pet along?
Of course you want to bring your pet because, well, attention! Plus, you don’t want to rush home if you had to leave your dog behind due to that person’s silly baby with the possible dander allergies. Pfft, the kid’s gotta get used to dog hair sooner or later . . .

6. Are you loud?
Are you constantly standing on a soapbox because you actually think people care about yours and your pets’ diets/favorite shows/the glowing review your yoga instructor gave you? Do you have loud, full conversations with your dog for all to hear? (Bonus points if you do it in another language, or in a sing-song voice.)

7. Is everyone a potential rival?
Do you get jealous if you hear another person in the park compliment someone’s dog before yours? Do you feel like you and your pet are in constant competition with your friends, relatives and their pets? Be honest: is no one safe from your sense of rivalry?

***

This is not a place of judgment; any honest pet owner wont pretend they haven’t teetered on the brink of most of these points a few times. A bit of narcissism can be good, it keeps us caring for ourselves and can make us our best selves! Embrace it, but try not to burn up too much of your energy trying to be the hottest, richest, cleverest, most stylish, most popular and successful person in the world…

Instead, focus on being the most humble, courteous, patient, kind and complimentary person you can be. Or, likewise, just be the person your pet thinks you are – that person is pretty exceptional.

Playtime with Ozzy the Weasel!

Posted on September 14, 2015 by luckyotter

I thought it was time to post something ridiculously and disgustingly adorable.

Ozzy is a “Least Weasel” (Mustela nivalis). It’s the smallest member of the Mustelidae (as well as the smallest of the Carnivora), native to Eurasia, North America and North Africa, though it has been introduced elsewhere. Despite its small size, the least weasel is a fierce hunter, capable of killing a rabbit 5-10 times its own weight

How my NPD/ASPD control freak ex used a dog to gaslight me.

Posted on August 14, 2015 by luckyotter

In 2011, when my parasitic MN/ASPD ex was still living on my couch, he decided he wanted a dog.

We already had a dog, Dexter, who was an awesome black lab mix (he lives with my daughter and her fiance now). The house I live in (and lived in then) is tiny. At the time, we had Dexter and 5 cats. Far too many animals for a two bedroom house, but these were pets I cared about, so I wasn’t too bothered by the overpopulation problem in the house.

But oh no, a dog and five cats wasn’t enough for the Parasite (which is his new name as far as I’m concerned so that’s who he’ll be from now on). No, he had to have his OWN dog, one that HE picked. I told him we had no room for another pet, and it was already too expensive feeding and taking care of the ones we had (remember, he contributed nothing financially since he refused to work so all their expenses fell on me) but he couldn’t see reason.
Instead, he whined petulantly, “But Dexter needs a playmate!”
Dexter did not need a playmate. Parasite needed some easy narcissistic supply.

A few weeks passed and Parasite gaslighted me by telling me and everyone else who would listen that “Lauren hates animals” because I put my foot down about getting a new puppy.

One day I came home from work and found Parasite slumped on the couch that had a huge valley in the center from his constant inert and hateful presence, and in his arms was a puppy. A Jack Russell puppy.

For anyone who isn’t familiar with Jack Russells, they’re a cute beagle-like breed of hunting dog but they have serious ADHD and need to be able to run as much as they want. They bark a lot and are just extremely hyper. They are difficult to train because they’re so stubborn. They may be fine for a family with kids who lives on a farm or has acres of land for the dog to run, but they are definitely NOT the kind of dog that would do well in a small apartment or house with only a smallish unfenced yard. They are not the kind of dog to have if you live in a suburban development where the neighbors are no more than 40 feet away.

I hate Jack Russells. (But I love dogs).

But it looked like we had one, at least for the moment.
I told him to take it back wherever he got it.
“Oh, but he’s so cuuuuuuuuuute! Look at him!” (said in low-register baby talk)
I roll my eyes. “Yes, he’s very cute, but we have too many pets already, and I can’t afford to feed him too.”
“Oh, he won’t be expensive to feed. Dexter needs a friend!” He shoves the the puppy up in my face. “LOOOOOOOK at him, he LOOOOOVES you. Isn’t he CUUUUUTE?”
I see red. He isn’t listening. Again. He never listens. He never cares about anyone but himself. I tell him this.

He projects and gaslights. “No, YOU’RE the one who only thinks about yourself. You don’t care about animals. You only think about YOU! You don’t care about MEEEE. I have diabetes and mental problems and a bad knee and I have to live here on your couch and don’t have my own home and it’s always too hot or cold in here and you buy crappy food and now you’re telling me I can’t have a dog who won’t be any bother to you at all.”
I stare daggers at him. I can feel the lava of BPD rage boiling in my gut. I try to stay calm. I count to ten.
“I want you to take him back.”
“No.”
Maybe pleasantry might help. “Please take the puppy back.”
“No, and if you dare try to take him to the shelter, I’ll kill myself and make it look like a murder.”

The BPD volcano erupts. “YOU’RE A F&%KING ASSHOLE! TAKE THAT GODDAM DOG BACK TOMORROW, YOU STUPID FREAK!”
“What will you do if I don’t?” He’s baiting me. He has me on the spot. There’s nothing I could do or would do, and he knows it. He’s in complete control.
“Uh…I don’t know….But I’LL FIND SOMETHING!”
“You’d probably have Barnaby (he already picked a name) put to sleep,” he says, fake pouting. “You hate animals, you have no compassion or you’d let me keep him.”
I give up and leave the room, but out of the corner of my eye see Parasite holding Barnaby up to his face and telling him in that infuriating fake-masculine baby talk what a “meanie” I am.

So Barnaby stayed. For two years. I never hated a dog before, but I hated this one. He chewed everything, the furniture, the rugs, important papers, my favorite book. Once he ate an entire pack of cigarettes and vomited them up all over the chewed up and shredded rugs. He pissed and shat everywhere, up until he was a year old. Parasite kept making excuses for him such as “but he’s only a PUPPEEE!” or shifting the blame to me–“you’re so impatient!” Not only did I hate him because he was so out of control, I hated him because Parasite refused to train him and that dog represented to me everything bad about the Parasite himself. Every time I saw that dog, it reminded me of how controlled, intimidated and powerless I had become.

Barnaby barked and howled nonstop. Morning, noon and night. Once he got a taste of the great outdoors, he decided this was something he couldn’t live without, so running away for hours at a time was a weekly occurrence, and eventuall a daily occurrence.
But running away wasn’t all he did. Oh, no. If he’d run away and never returned there’d be no love lost.

But he’d run into neighbors’ backyards. He’d devour their gardens, then sit there and howl for hours. You’d go try to catch him, and the little demon would run. It was a game to him. He’d run, then sit down and look at you, waiting for you to make a move. You’d lunge after him, and he’d bound off again, then sit down and look at you, teasing you and daring you. He was too fast, I could never catch him. And Parasite wouldn’t try. It was up to me to get him to come back. And I never could.
I’d go to bed and hear him howling somewhere nearby and wonder what the hell I was going to do.

Soon the neighbors were mad at us for allowing our out of control dog to keep them up all night and ruin their yards. Animal Control was called twice. The second time, I answered the door when they came, and when they told me there’d be a fine if it happened again, I told them they were free to take him, I couldn’t handle him. But Parasite was home, and intercepted, promising he’d be good and it wouldn’t happen again. Animal Control left. Barnaby stayed.

The next night, Barnaby ran off and howled in another neighbor’s yard. Animal control came and took him away. Parasite was inconsolable at first, then his grief morphed into rage. He threatened me: “You go get that dog back tomorrow.”
“I don’t have the money.”
“You’re lying. Do it or I’ll kill myself. And make it look like you did it.”
I used my week’s entire paycheck to go retrieve Demon Dog from the shelter, leaving us without food that week (which Parasite of course complained about).

This time, Parasite actually had the presence of mind to build a makeshift fence from steel beams where Barnaby could be confined. So although he continued to chew everything in sight and bark too much (and still seemed to have problems containing his bowels) he seemed calmer in his grassy kingdom and the howling ceased.

But this didn’t last. Barnaby was smart. One night Barnaby dug his way out from under the pen and I heard the distant howling.
I couldn’t do this anymore. I remembered Parasite’s threat. But sometimes frustration or anger can override fear, and I reasoned that it was probably an empty threat anyway, since he rarely had followed through on any of his past threats.
I was going to place an ad on Craigslist.
But Parasite had an announcement of his own.
“I don’t want Barnaby anymore,” he said.
I just stared at him stupidly.

A week later Barnaby went to live with a family that answered our ad on Craigslist. The man who came to get him said he had five acres of land and 4 kids, and they’d always wanted a Jack Russell.

Spiderkitten.

Posted on August 2, 2015 by luckyotter

My daughter’s 3 1/2 month old kitten Zelda was climbing the walls today.

Update on Mr. Biggles.

Posted on June 28, 2015 by luckyotter

I wrote about Mr. Biggles in this article; he had to be rehomed several months ago (along with my black lab mix, Dexter) because I simply didn’t have the space for so many kitties or the time to devote to my dog, who was alone in the house all day (I wound up keeping Cleo here). I gave Mr. Biggles and Dexter to my ex for awhile because he is always home (that is one thing I can trust him with–animals), but now he is living with my daughter and her boyfriend and seems to be thriving. If anything, he’s fatter and hairier than ever.

That’s my daughter holding Mr. Biggles.

Chunky (Chunks): RIP 2003 – June 20, 2015

Posted on June 21, 2015 by luckyotter

I am very sad right now and this will probably be the only thing I write tonight.
A couple of hours ago, my fat cat Chunks died. I think it was cancer, most likely a tumor that eventually blocked her intestines.

I got her in 2011, when she was 8. She was already middle aged, fat but sassy, and while she loved her people (especially me) she used to show my other kitties (and dog Daisy, then Dexter) exactly where they stood. One of the things she loved to do was suck on my fingers at night. She was probably dreaming of kittenhood, being fed by her mom, when she did that.

No matter how many low fat diets she was put on, or how many reduced feedings, she kept getting fatter. When I could afford to, I took her to the vet and he put her on a special diet for awhile but it didn’t work because she didn’t like the bland Science Diet he gave her.

Generally though, she was healthy–as an overweight middle aged lady can be. Occasionally I’d give her a little catnip and that would perk her up and she’d run around the house making everyone laugh because it was so unexpected and she looked so funny running around like that.

The past few weeks I noticed she was losing weight. She started vomiting more than usual (she always puked a lot because she ate too fast) but not excessively so. I tried putting her on a blander diet and giving her smaller portions. But she started to become lethargic last week and went off her feed. I couldn’t find any vets who wouldn’t charge and I couldn’t afford to take her to one, but she didn’t really seem that uncomfortable. I spent more time with her and brought her up on my bed at night to sleep with me. She hadn’t done that in awhile.

Yesterday she stopped eating. This morning she vomited something that looked and smelled like feces. I knew her time had come. There wasn’t anything to do but wait.

She slept most of the day and at about 3 PM I heard her cry in pain. I rushed into the living room where she lay, and dark brown, almost black blood was coming from her mouth. Normally something like that would gross me out (I’m a pretty squeamish person) but when it’s someone you love, it doesn’t. You heart breaks for them of course, but the sight of blood or bodily fluids isn’t disgusting, not when there’s love there.

She went unconscious and started to convulse badly. I cried as I sat down on the floor next to her and petted and stroked her as she finally went across the Rainbow Bridge. I said a prayer and told her I was sorry I couldn’t have done more. I told her I loved her.

She didn’t suffer for long, only a minute, and the spot where she died was the exact same spot my dog Daisy died 2 1/2 years ago. Wiping away tears, I read the copy of The Rainbow Bridge, and then found a cardboard cat carrier to lay her in, put a towel on the bottom, and covered her with a little dog-and-cat printed blanket.

I’ll miss you, Chunks.

Just this side of heaven is a place called Rainbow Bridge.
When an animal dies that has been especially close to someone here, that pet goes to Rainbow Bridge. There are meadows and hills for all of our special friends so they can run and play together. There is plenty of food, water and sunshine, and our friends are warm and comfortable.

All the animals who had been ill and old are restored to health and vigor. Those who were hurt or maimed are made whole and strong again, just as we remember them in our dreams of days and times gone by. The animals are happy and content, except for one small thing; they each miss someone very special to them, who had to be left behind.

They all run and play together, but the day comes when one suddenly stops and looks into the distance. His bright eyes are intent. His eager body quivers. Suddenly he begins to run from the group, flying over the green grass, his legs carrying him faster and faster.

You have been spotted, and when you and your special friend finally meet, you cling together in joyous reunion, never to be parted again. The happy kisses rain upon your face; your hands again caress the beloved head, and you look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet, so long gone from your life but never absent from your heart.

Then you cross Rainbow Bridge together….

Author unknown…

Narcissists who love animals and their mothers.

Posted on May 30, 2015 by luckyotter

I’ve noticed something strange about some narcissists that I’ve never seen mentioned anywhere else. Some narcissists, though lacking empathy for other people, seem to have it in spades for animals. Even some psychopathic malignant narcissists are actually very good with non-human creatures. My ex is one of these. He cried like a baby when our dog, Daisy, died of a massive stroke in early 2013. He was always very kind to her and the cats. He used to be beside himself with worry when one of them got sick. The animals seemed to trust him and even preferred him to me! In spite of being No Contact (really, very low contact) with him, I completely trusted him when I had to recently rehome two cats and a dog, all whom I cared about very much (the pets are now staying with my daughter).

But that’s the only time you would ever see him be genuinely kind. Any “kindness” he showed other people was meant to be either manipulative or to impress.

A commenter on another post, discussing her psychopathic ex-lover who is still actively gaslighting her and generally being psychologically abusive, had this to say about him:

The guy I know loves cats. Many of the photographs he sent me have him in photos with kittens in his hands. The photos make him look very loving. Because you would think that any man that relates to cats and kittens in photos would be loving, gentle and harmless.
[…] His nickname for me was Kitty Kat.

This phenomenon is actually pretty common. It surprises me it’s almost never discussed.
So here is the conclusion I come to about why some narcissists can genuinely feel empathy for animals. The problem isn’t that the narcissist lacks empathy per se, but that they have shut off their capacity to feel empathy for other humans. They may feel it for an animal (or maybe for some, a lesser or non-mammalian animal because dogs and cats may be seen as “too human.”). Here are two surprisingly touching essays Sam Vaknin wrote about his relationship with a goldfish and a snail. The reason some narcissists have normal or even excessive levels of empathy for animals is because animals are “safer” to feel empathy for than other humans, who they have come to hate and devalue due to abuse they suffered at the hands of their parents.

Of course this doesn’t apply to all narcissists or people with an antisocial personality. We have all read of cases of serial killers and other sadistic criminals who spent their childhoods tormenting all living creatures, even the lowly ants and spiders of the world. But only some are like this. Most are probably indifferent to animals.

Mama’s boys.

I have also seen a related phenomenon that’s even more strange than the affinity some narcs have with animals. Some psychopaths and malignant narcissists (almost always male) who seem to live to abuse or even torment other people, at the same time seem to genuinely love their own mothers and even feel protective of them. You hear about serial killers who worshipped their mothers (but hate all other women), even though the mothers were almost always abusive to them. The movie “Psycho” illustrates this in Norman Bates’ relationship with his dead mother. Obviously the exceptions these psychopaths make for their mothers are rooted in severe codependency to the point most people see their relationships with them as “sick,” but it’s still an indicator of a more vulnerable, codependent side of themselves they show to no one else.

For both the seriously character disordered who love animals (because they’re safer to love than people) and those who love their mothers (because they have unhealthy codependency with them), it’s as if little piece of their true self somehow remains split off and immune from their otherwise impenetrable wall of narcissism.