Crazy Dog Is So Crazy

30 Jul

imageWho Wants A Crazy Dog?

Me, apparently. I adopted Casey in the summer of 2007. I was being stalked and harassed by four men in our little town here, after being effectively abandoned by the men I thought were my friends.

I went to the animal shelter. Casey was there. He just stood there in the cage, looked at me, wagged his tail.

I asked the shelter personnel to bring him out. We went into a little room. He tried to find things to hide under. I took him to a nice vet. The nice vet said he was about a year old, and look at that broken canine. He could have been chewing at anything.

In retrospect, I can see the signs of trauma. But I needed a dog so badly.

Casey came home with me, that August of 2007. Within days, he took out a window, thunder rumbling off in the distance.

“Stop that right this minute!” I howled from across the yard. Ran. Found my new dog running around bleeding from paw and face. He attacked a glass window to escape from the bad noise. He collapsed in shock, panting, eyes wild.

I nailed stock fencing across the windows. I bought him a thunder shirt. I thought about how my dog was brought to such a terrible state.

Chained up outdoors. Bad thunderstorm. Broke his tooth biting through the chain.

Casey spent his first year with humans who would treat dogs so coldly. Then he spent eight years with me, poor traumatized dog that he is.

He left again yesterday. I let the door be open and he ran off again, fast over the fence and gone.

I decided that if he is found, I have to work to try to find him a new home where there is not all this business of bad noises in the sky. Because that’s a bad way to live, being routinely terrified much of the year.

Casey loves humans, he loves other dogs. He’s nine years old. Still jumping fences though!



The Return of the Circular Firing Squad

22 Jul

I spend a lot of time yelling at people online for insisting men can decide to become women. As an equal opportunity yeller, I’m calling this out too.

“white male activists of every stripe, but especially the enviros and liberal progressives like DGR males (no matter what you call yourselves, and no, you arent radical) could do something about this if they wanted to. but they arent, even though they arent generally opposed to doing both underground and above board “actions” designed to bring XYZ to its knees.”

What the fuck are you talking about? Liberal? Do you even know what that word means?

“it apparently doesnt occur to these white male pig activists to “start” by neutralizing their own personal brute squad, but it wouldnt, would it?”

What the actual fuck are you talking about? Do you just go around randomly making shit up to get attention now?

“you are disgusting fucking cowards who get off on images of black women being brutalized by other white males, and you and only you benefit when a black woman is killed for calling a white male pig a coward and a pussy.

you dont actually want it to stop. but you know that already. and so do i.”

This is completely insane. You don’t have anybody better to do than go after than men who are actually trying to help? Too much time on your hands? Too scary to go after the real bad guys?

You know who’s a fucking coward? You are, FCM. My sheroes are bloggers who get out there in MRA’s faces, in person, with their own names and their own faces. You aren’t even on the bottom of my list. You should be ashamed of yourself.


22 Jul

I used to have a coin collection. My father had one, a jar of Indian head pennies. I don’t know what happened to those. Sold, I guess. I liked to look at them when I visited him and his parents and his mother’s sisters, in the summers.

I don’t know how I started my own coin collection, but I do remember my first helper, a little old man who worked at the liquor store next to the grocery store down the street from where I lived when I was a child. I would go into the liquor store to buy candy, and he’d save the best pennies for me and give them to me in change. Found me a 1909 once, and several in the teens and twenties.

We moved when I was twelve, but I’d come back to visit my stepfather, and once I went down to the old ‘hood and stopped in to visit my old buddy. I must have been around fourteen. I don’t know how long it had been since he found me any pennies.

I strolled into the shop, and there he was! I greeted him with pleasure, and reminded him about the pennies.

He looked me over, called me over, felt up my breast, kind of cringed, and gave me a chocolate covered cherry. Shooed me out of the store.

I knew this wasn’t right. It made no sense. I thought we were friends.

I don’t remember eating the chocolate. Maybe I did. He remembered they were my favorites.

Looking Back

20 Jul


I sometimes stalk houses online. This involves map apps and also just searching for the street address. It’s fascinating, what you can find out by Google searching street addresses.

I am particularly interested in houses I used to live in. Are they still there? What have the new people done to them? Can it possibly be good?

The other night, I looked up my West Los Angeles childhood home, and lo and behold, it’s for sale.

This real estate listing has 29 photos, inside and out. This is much, much better than what is offered by map apps.

We moved there around 1964 and moved out in 1970, when I was twelve. The house falls into the general category of what is commonly referred to as Spanish Colonial Revival, which means red tile roofs and lots of arches. It was built around 1930. It has ten rooms including the bathrooms, and an arched picture window in the front room, which we kept obscured by a large split leaf philodendron, Monstera deliciosa, whom we informally called the Monster Plant.


The front of the house looks very much the same now, though all our landscaping, Monster included, has been replaced, mostly by king palm trees. The interior still seems quite familiar. Renovated the kitchen and the bathrooms, they did, but many memorable details remained – doors, windows, alcoves, the general layout, even the oddly textured stucco on the walls. There is my bedroom, with all the windows, that my mother decorated in yellow and green.


There is the den, where I was put to bed one night (why in the den? I don’t remember) when my mother and stepfather had a terrible fight and she came in later to comfort me, concerned that I was frightened. There is the back door, somehow holding drama. Why have I dreamed of that door so often?


And then there was the back yard. The yard where I invented games with my younger siblings, with its elaborate border my mother tended, all sorts of flowering plants. The trellised and tiled patio the parents built alongside the garage, the little patch of ground behind the garage, didn’t we try to grow corn there once? And the honeysuckle-covered fence that I’d climb to ascend to the forbidden garage roof, from which vantage point I could spy on the neighbor’s children, one of whom once retaliated by throwing rocks at me. “It is not right to throw rocks!” I informed him, to little avail.

All gone. Instead, there were pictures of a rectangular swimming pool, looking banal and small.

I sent this link to my mother, and she responded after a day or so. “These pictures kill me,” she said. “So much is the same, and everything that’s different is worse. Put back the philodendron, put back the hydrangea. Get rid of that goddamn swimming pool. Hack down those stupid palm trees. Back, back!”

And though I was inclined to be nice, to think they’d done a good job on the place, such as it was, I could surely understand her sentiments. Put it all back, back the way it was before we were swept away in the face of swimming pools and palm trees and looming futures. Back before all these dramas and disappointments, back to when so much still lay ahead for both of us, as I followed my mother in awe, around this early suburban garden, learning the names of flowers.

Shedding light on how transgender identity reveals itself in brain scans: the most scientific study we have seen

19 Jul Featured Image -- 1601

“Porn, family violence linked to surge in child-on-child sex abuse cases”

17 Jul

Originally posted on Anti-Porn Feminists:

The number of children sexually abusing other children has risen steeply, with treatment services reporting that pornography and family violence are fuelling the trend.

Children as young as four are being referred to programs for problem sexual behaviour as more parents and schools detect abuse in the family home and in the playground.

The Royal Children’s Hospital’s Gatehouse service saw 350 new cases in the past financial year – more than double the previous year. Of those children, 60 per cent were abusing a sibling; more than 90 per cent had experienced or witnessed family violence.

Experts say the seriousness of the sexual acts has escalated in recent years and that online pornography is often being used as a “teaching manual” for abuse.

Karen Hogan, manager of the service said the children involved were “screaming out for help” and should not be demonised.

“These kids are barometers for what is…

View original 599 more words

Missing MichFest

14 Jul

Originally posted on musingformuses:

When I was a baby feminist in the late 80s, in Ohio, MichFest was talked about as a feminist institution in my circles, like Ms Magazine (Ms was better then and I was infinitely more naive) or Off Our Backs, Take Back the Night Marches and Croning Ceremonies. I was privileged to see Andrea Dworkin speak at my college at the height of her and Catharine MacKinnon’s work to hold pornographers legally accountable for the harms they contribute to.

Just in the last few years I’ve had enough self-confidence, longing, and resources to actually participate in MichFest. This is the first year I got serious about planning to go, and then, like many other women, I became determined to go after the announcement that this would be the last Fest in its current incarnation. But life intervened. I have to work that week and there isn’t an option to say…

View original 160 more words


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