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timmy
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Has no life at all |
Location: UK, in Devon
Registered: February 2003
Messages: 13796
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She was a rescued cat, and came to us at maybe 6 months old. We've had Ginnie as a frined for so many years. She arrived when I had chicken pox. She was probably 16 years old.
He is a racing greyhound owner. His dog (not on a lead, and without a muzzle) came down my driveway, and ripped her apart. She died in agony over the next 20 minutes en route to the vet.
He pulled the dog off and went home without a word. He has not made any attempt to be in contact at all.
I have photographed her injuries and posted them through his front door. I hope he vomits on his carpet
In good times this is Ginnie.
Taken in my back garden, earlier this year.
She was named because she used to fizz. So "Gin Fizz" so Ginnie.
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Attachment: ginnie.jpg
(Size: 90.59KB, Downloaded 360 times)
[Updated on: Wed, 17 September 2003 18:13] by Moderator
Author of Queer Me! Halfway Between Flying and Crying - the true story of life for a gay boy in the Swinging Sixties in a British all male Public School
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I'm sure Ginnie was happy for sixteen years living in your home, which is pretty long for a cat I think. It was a terrible way for her to go, but maybe it's best to remember the good more than the bad...
*hugs*
-L
"But he that hath the steerage of my course,
direct my sail."
-William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet, Act One, Scene IV
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smith
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On fire! |
Registered: January 1970
Messages: 1095
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Remember the Rainbow Bridge......Ginnie is safe and young and laying in the sun now.
I know how hard it is to lose a 'friend' even in the best of circumstances. Mourn her and remember all the joy she brought to your family.
I know you put her with your other beloved pets and the grass will be greener, the flowers will bloom brighter because Ginnie is there.
She can play with Cracker and Beau and Jazzie and Tri and all the other much loved animals that we've all lost.
My friend Ty is there. He loves cats. He'll play with her and she can watch him skate the bridge.
I'm so sorry, timmy >sniffle<
{{{{{hugs}}}}}
smith
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smith and Lenny voiced good thoughts. I echo them...
Meanwhile, back to your irresponsible neighbor, who I am trying not to think of as horrible...
Surely a formal complaint can be lodged against him and the dangerous animal?
Ginnie sounds a lot like Charlie. Our family cat when my brother and I were growing up. He also was a stray who made himself at home. I loved that he would watch TV with us. I mean, he really watched the TV! He used to reach out a paw and try to "catch" the action on the screen. Amused him for hours at a time, same as my brother and I. (In self-defense, I can only say that we had one of the first TV's on our street...hehehe)
Charlie stayed with us until he was 17. He died peacefully in his sleep, tho. Same as Ginnie should have been able to do.
Hence I return to the dangerous dog. Shouldn't that animal be better controlled, by law, for everybody's safety?
"Always forgive your enemies...nothing annoys them quite so much." Oscar Wilde
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timmy
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Has no life at all |
Location: UK, in Devon
Registered: February 2003
Messages: 13796
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In England a cat is not legally an animal, so has zero status. A dog may thus eat any number of cats with impunity. If it bit a dog that would be different, because a dog has a legal status as an animal.
We have a "Dangerous Dogs Act" but that is against dogs like Pit Bulls. We cna try to have him prosectuted for not having his dog under control, but that will fail because a dog "naturally chases cats".
If his greyhound had been in racing training, then he would have broken the codes of practice for exercising racing greyhounds, but it is now a pet because it is retired.
The Dog Warden is going to talk to him today to explain a few things to him. In uniform. And his uniform looks very ploice like!
But nothing will bring Ginnie back
Author of Queer Me! Halfway Between Flying and Crying - the true story of life for a gay boy in the Swinging Sixties in a British all male Public School
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warren c. e. austin
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Likes it here |
Location: Toronto, Ontario, CANADA
Registered: February 2003
Messages: 247
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... your news distresses me so.
My little girl Lucky, a "Red-nosed Red Devil" Staffordshire Terrier, came to my home as a rescue animal; as have a number of my feline friends over the years.
Very late on a typical fall Friday evening, well after midnight, Maximillion, a Rottweiler, and my long-time companion, and I were undertaking our last tour of the local surround before retiring for the night. According to long establish habit for such an enterprise, he and I were moseying on down a strip of grassed perimeter next to the wooden barrier fence that separated the rear of the neighbourhood Shopping Centre from an adjacent complex of Townhouses.
From out of nowhere appeared Lucky, who aggressively demanded my Max's attention, and mine. I didn't then know she was a she, and accordingly, figuring "she" to be a "he", attempted to keep our distance from her, all the while trying desperately to move Max along, and avoid any potential conflict. Lucky would not take no for an answer, time and time again over the next few minutes approaching both of us.
It would be some days before I would know the full extend of her problems; but, she was then, and to this day continues to remain one very "pushy" broad, and I finally gave in, tying Max up to the fence, cautiously approaching her.
I cannot ever relate for you, either Lucky's courage at having made the contact in the first place, nor the horror I came to subsequently feel as I began to understand the extent of her need. For you see it was a miracle that she could attempt to try and walk, and to come to either Max or It at all. She was mess. My first impression being that she had been the victim of a traffic accident or something.
Incredibly she allowed me to pick her up, cuddling her to my breast, I untied Max and had him follow me, dragging his leash, over, around, and through the breezeway that separated the Grocery Store from the rest of the complex. I needed a telephone you see. I needed help. I could not manage her and Max alone. I needed to summons my eldest Son, who I knew was sitting at home, and could aid the three of us.
Mercifully, one of the local tribe of youths that habitually hung around the Mall late at night, and who was known to Max, saw my approach and came running to assist me. He took control of Max, and helped me to the nearest pay-telephone kiosk. I couldn't manage, not with holding Lucky, and fumbling for change and all. The youth called home for me and summonsed my son.
When Alan arrived, the tears were streaming down my face. I was shaking uncontrollably, and he was to tell me later, that his first impression upon seeing me was that he thought I was near bordering on a state of shock. When he saw the condition of the bundle I was holding to me, he too started to cry, as did the youth who had been trying to help me.
Together, he and I, carried Lucky home, and the frantic telephone calls began trying to get her assistance. To no avail. Not until Monday morning when my local Vet's office opened as usual.
What's germane here, and particularly relevant to your tale, is that I, at that time, had five cats. The ultimate miracle here, if ever there was one, is that it was the five cats who kept Lucky alive that frightfully long weekend, all five continually sleeping with her, keeping her warm, bathing her, and otherwise trying, in ways neither my son or I, nor Max could ever do, to comfort, and soothe, and feed her.
Those five, whose names were "Reefer", "Puss-Puss", "Felix", "CWNN" (that's Cat with No Name, pronounced QUINN), and "Slow-poke", I hold forever in my debt, although they have all gone now. They save my little girl's life that weekend.
Monday morning, there we sat, Alan, Max and myself holding Lucky, on the Vet's doorstep awaiting his opening the door. Upon his examination of Lucky, it was his recommendation that she be put down. For you see, her pelvis had been shattered, with the left hind-leg broken in at least three places, and it was later to be determined her back had been broken. There were other visible signs of trauma, which prompted his telephone call to the police.
My son and I had only one question of the Vet: "Could she be made right, if he chose to help her?" His answer, was a tentative "Yes, that he most certainly he could SAVE her life, but the prognosis for her ever walking again was very dim."
No contest. I told the Vet "Make her well." He did.
As a direct consequence of the circumstances surrounding her coming into our possession, Lucky had to be quarantined for 21-days after the surgery, with neither my son or I allowed to visit her. It would be a agonizingly long 21-days before either the Vet, or my son or I, would learn that his surgery had been successful.
Lucky had not moved once in those intervening days, with her, we came to think feeling that she had been abandoned by those she had asked for help, and her simply wanting to die.
The day arrived for us to come and get her. The Vet cautiously advised us not to expect anything, as Lucky had given no signs that she could move at all, although the Vet had been able to determine that she appeared to be in no pain or discomfort. It didn't matter I told the Vet. We would carry her everywhere if we had to.
My son and I entered her pen, and she leaped to her feet, showering both Alan and I with kisses, and cuddles, and all manner of squiggles and rubs and nudges and such.
To say that the Vet was amazed would be an understatement. Although it would be a very long 6-months before Lucky regained full use of most of her spatial movement.
Lucky had an embedded "microchip", as did Max, and from this chip it was learned who she was, and her pedigree. The Vet could tell us nothing, because the matter then lay in the hands of the authorities, and it would be 3-years before we were actually told her Title-name, and papers transferred to my Son and by the Canadian Kennel Club, although we were told her age. She was seven, and pure-bred, from a breed long thought to be almost extinct, there only being some 1000, or so, of her kind catalogued in North America at that time. You see, hers was the mother breed of the now very popular "Pit Bull" some 60-years earlier, with hers falling from fashion in the early 1950's and finding no favour amongst current breeders or dog-owners.
Our Vet was extremely concerned about our bringing her home, especially allowing that we had the five cats. Lycky's breed were, and are small animal hunters after all is said and done. He advised extreme caution, telling us that we would know almost immediately if we were going to have a problem. Upon entering the apartment, and placing her down on her feet that first time, the cats all came running to welcome her, and she in turn nuzzled, each in turn, washing each of their faces, and otherwise, accepting their place in her world. We never once had a problem with her, or her subsequent offspring, in all the years we continued t have cats in the home. Nor do I to this day in my brother's where he too has had any number of cats. My Vet still finds this amazing.
Resulting from her trauma, and the invasive nature of the surgery involved in making her right, she could not be immediately spayed, and you just have to know what ultimately happened.
Lucky was a born "one-nighter", and however we policed things at home during her long convalescence, she and Max managed to do the "big nasty". This is contrary to Kennel Club rules, but due to the circumstances it was granted to allow her to come to term; but only upon the condition that each and everyone of hers and Max's offspring had to be neutered as soon as practicable, and before we could find homes for them.
Three-weeks premature, Lucky blessed Alan and I with 24-pups, all survived, with each healthy and wonderfully good-natured. I kept all the pups for 6-months to socialize them before giving them to friends, and relatives, retaining two, one for each of my sons.
This taking place 12-years ago. She and Max mated for life, with his only recently passing away at the age of 21. She is a spry and vigorous 19 today, and has ongoing contact with several of her offspring, each of whom she still recognizes and wrestles to the floor to bathe and care for upon each meeting.
When it came to naming her, you should remember, we didn't and would not for some years know here actual name, it was an unequivocal hands down for being "Lucky", my son and I both t one and the same time uttering the name to the Vet when he registered here in his database. My son, feeling that she was "Lucky" to be alive, and I that she was "Lucky" to have found Max.
Myself, I have come to realize that both my son and I are the ones who were luckiest of all.
Warren C. E. Austin
Toronto, Canada
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e
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On fire! |
Location: currently So Cal
Registered: May 2002
Messages: 1179
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I know it hurts to lose a pet, especially one you've had for so long.
Thinking good thoughts,
e
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I'm so sorry, Tim.
The obvious question that comes to mind is, "If a cat isn't an animal, then what is it? A lawn ornament?" As Mr. Bumble in "Oliver Twist" would have observed, "If the law assumes that a cat is not an animal, then the law is a ass!"
When you raised your English Sheepdogs, Tim, you thought of them as pets (that is, members of the family) first, and showdogs second. That's a most important lesson your neighbor needs to learn.
I know Ty will take Ginnie in his arms and give her a nice welcoming skateboard ride over the Rainbow Bridge.
{{{hugs}}}
We do not remember days...we remember moments.
Cesare Pavese
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Guest
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On fire! |
Registered: March 2012
Messages: 2344
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Big hugs timmy,am grieving with you
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timmy
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Has no life at all |
Location: UK, in Devon
Registered: February 2003
Messages: 13796
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Last night we had a note of apology.
This morning the dog was on a lead. It will be on a lead from now on.
This morning I made him face us. We both wept. He saw the tears. He wriggled, but made a proper apology. In so far as an apology will be a salve on this, it is a salve.
Last night I realised that Ginnie was the only one of our three cats that sits on my lap. Sat. Bramble tries to but can't relax, and Cherry only likes my wife.
I never had the time to say goodbye to Ginnie yesterday. I was too busy rushing to get us to the vet.
Left to right: Cherry, Ginnie, Bramble. Ginnie is the mother of the other two. And the washing machine was on! They always eat that way, even if we are doing laundry.
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Attachment: cattrio.jpg
(Size: 45.43KB, Downloaded 393 times)
[Updated on: Wed, 17 September 2003 17:50] by Moderator
Author of Queer Me! Halfway Between Flying and Crying - the true story of life for a gay boy in the Swinging Sixties in a British all male Public School
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timmy
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Has no life at all |
Location: UK, in Devon
Registered: February 2003
Messages: 13796
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Legally inthe uK a cat, even a hugely expensive pedigree cat, is classified as a wild animal. As such it has no rights. Unless it belongs to a protected species, a wild animal may be killed legally by anyone (though some limits exist where we are talking of game creatures like pheasant, etc, where the dates on which they may be killed are restricted).
So, my cats have no rights.
Author of Queer Me! Halfway Between Flying and Crying - the true story of life for a gay boy in the Swinging Sixties in a British all male Public School
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Show your neighbor that picture, Tim. It should drive home the point much more forcefully but in a very subtle way.
{{{hugs}}}
We do not remember days...we remember moments.
Cesare Pavese
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That still does not compute....
We do not remember days...we remember moments.
Cesare Pavese
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I am a cat person, not a dog person. I know many here are dog persons, however, I don't really trust them. Not sure why.
Cats are such strange creatures, they live with us, yet they don't really need us. Well, in the scandinavian climate they usually do since house cats aren't really used to our climate, but I mean in general...
It's kinda flattering in a way I think, that they do want to live with us, and they are such beautiful creatures, so agile and proud! Just a look at their face, their eyes, shows this so well.
-L
"But he that hath the steerage of my course,
direct my sail."
-William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet, Act One, Scene IV
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Timmy, I'm sorry for your loss, I don't know what else to say. 
