We work our brains out, so the people of this country can be happy eating their fleshy foods. At a cheaper price, may I add," said Amigo.
I just about freaked out! No doubt, the owner/s of the meat packing plant considered their workers nothing more than 'automatons'.
Descartes considered 'us' automatons, too. He along with others of his kind was responsible for countless horrific experiments on live animals. No human being/s could ever imagine how much pain, agony, and torment, we've endured at the hands of some wicked humans.
While I was pondering about this tragedy, Amigo interrupted me by resuming his sad story.
"Jody, my wrist pain became unbearable. I had to endure excruciating pain around the clock. The range of motion on my wrist was drastically reduced.
As expected, other factory workers noticed the swelling of my wrist. They'd seen my problem before. A close friend of mine at the plant told me to see a doctor.
Well, I certainly couldn't afford to see a doctor. For one thing, I had absolutely no medical insurance. Furthermore, if I'd started to gripe at work, I'd become unemployed before I finished my statement," said Amigo.
"Wait a minute! Something is not right here. Amigo, are you being totally honest with me?" I asked.
At that moment, Amigo broke down. In fact, he had a guilty expression on his face. There was more to his story. I was certain he was only giving me part of his story. I wanted to know the whole story!
"I’m sorry Jody. I wasn't totally honest with you. I'm a two-bit thug. I'm a first class criminal.
I'm very educated in the criminal arts. I'm a natural born criminal. Most likely, I'll die as such.
Jody, please understand that I was in extreme pain! I had to swallow my pride. I did the unthinkable," said Amigo.
Jody, promise me that you'll never tell anyone what I'm about to tell you!" requested Amigo.
"I promise I'll never tell anyone; on my honor as a proud cat!" I responded.
"I became a ... a... a... horrible criminal. I sold drugs, stole, pimped, embezzled, lied, consumed all sorts of illicit drugs, and I worked for a ruthless loan shark for a while," said Amigo.
"Wait, why did you do all of those evil things? Even if breaking the law was justifiable under the circumstances, you freaking went too far! Way too freaking far!" I shouted.
"I'm sorry. I guess being a criminal was normal for me. It was 'homeostasis' for me. Look, I like being a criminal. So long as I don't get caught. Look here, I've got $250,000 coming to me as soon as I arrive at the secret destination, located in California.
In this last job, I was ordered to sell a 'bunch' of heroin and cocaine, back in Jersey. I kept a little for personal sales. That's why I was in such a chummy mood when we first met. Gosh, I was ready to buy you an airplane!
Before you and I met, I was pulled over by a nasty law man named Bailey! He was very harsh, racist, and nosey. Thankfully, I'd already sold my illicit drugs.
Bailey was terrible, but, his daughter was horrible! She was crying her brains out about some food theft. I think it was a couple of fish burgers and a super-size fries order. I think her name was Agnes. Boy was she an ugly duckling!
Bailey let me go. Well, he knew that I was guilty of something, he but couldn't prove it. It’s tough luck for him.
Please, Jody, I'm giving you a free ride, food, and companionship. Please don't attack me. I'm a desperate, confused, human being. Please, don't bitch me out!" exclaimed Amigo.
"Okay, I won't insult you. Nor will I bitch you out. I certainly won't play the silent treatment, either. After you drop me off, don't ever speak to me again. As far as I'm concerned, you were never my friend!
Drug dealers are responsible for the destruction of many human lives, properties, and drastically increase crime in communities. PEOPLE LIKE YOU ARE DESTROYING MY COUNTRY! NO! DAMNIT! THEY'RE DESTROYING THE ENTIRE PLANET!
What about the drug dealer who ran over your 'best friend? What's the deal with that? Really, did you idolize this drug dealer?" I asked.
"Please, let's talk about my wrist. I'm in so much pain and discomfort. I feel like I'm going to cry my brains out. Please, give me some feline comfort. You guys are really good at that.
If the surgery that I plan to have is successful, my wrist will be frozen in a fixed position. I'll be able to move my fingers, but not my wrist. Like some 'has been' drummer boys.
My pain is monstrous! Sometimes it drives me crazy! Jody, please don't make fun of me!" exclaimed Amigo.
"I wasn't going to make fun of you," I responded.
I began to wonder about Amigo's mental stability. He seemed like he had a couple of chestnuts lodged deep in his brain. Anyhow, I'd had enough of listening. I closed my eyes and pretended that I was sleeping. Actually, at first I pretended then I actually did fall asleep. Even in sleep, I was trying to form a game plan.
What was I going to do after Amigo dropped me off? That was the million dollar question running through my mind.
As I was pondering about my life's predicament, I was rudely awakened by Amigo.
"Look, Jody! Willowdale, California! We found a nice town!
Let me find a good place to drop you off at. I'm so sorry. My 'contacts' don't like cats! They're really tough characters. On more than one occasion, they shoved a fire cracker up a cat's rectum. They love the sound of the blast. But, they love the sound of the cat’s shriek of pain even more.
My 'Brothers' in Los Angeles love Pitt bulls, and other fighting dogs. No kitties, mice, or parrots. Only tough doggies," said Amigo.
Amigo was treating me like a slab of meat. Thankfully, I was a cat, and not his wife. If I'd been his wife, my face would've been used as a punching bag.
"Amigo, I need one more large meal to pull me through the evening. It's already 7 P.M. I need freaking food ... now! I shouted.
Amigo drove around in search of food. At this point, there was absolutely no doubt about Amigo’s dropping me off. I'd learned a valuable lesson: never take a human for granted. Even if the human tells you that he/she loves you.
"Willowdale, California's a small, friendly town. I want you to be happy and safe here. After I drop you off, I'll drive to the secret rendezvous, in Los Angeles. First, you must get some nourishment in you," said Amigo.
Amigo continued driving, before finding a good convenience store. He parked his van then turned off the ignition.
Amigo and I exited the van then walked to the convenience store. As soon as Amigo entered the convenience store, I hid behind a truck. I couldn't go inside with him. I suspected that Amigo was a fugitive. Maybe, his composite was being flashed on national television. Jeepers, I sure as hell didn't want to be arrested with a hardcore criminal. My freedom has always been important to me.
Amigo exited the convenience store carrying cat food, milk, and water, in a white plastic bag. It was the last time that I ever saw him.
Amigo told me that he needed to get something from his van. And that I should stay put.
As soon as Amigo returned to his van, he turned on the ignition, reversed then took off. I never saw him again.
THE DREADED VCOs
As soon as I finished my meal, an old man who'd been gawking at me, made his move. He approached me in a straightforward manner.
I became apprehensive. I sensed that there was something quite unusual about him. There was something about the expression on his face.
"Hey kitty, would you like to be my companion animal? I promise not to abuse you in any way, shape, or form. I'm a kindhearted old man, who loves cats. If you become my companion animal, my grandchildren will accept you as one of their own. So, what do you say?" asked the old man.
"Get away from me! Now! I know what you are! You're a freaking weirdo! Go away!
The old man reached into his pocket, then pulled out a switchblade. Instantly, I pounced on him!
In a flash, the old man was bloodied and bruised. I'd managed to leap onto his chest, causing him to fall on his back. Then, I scratched and bit him, without mercy. I'm not showing off or anything. Really!
After 'destroying' the old man, I leaped off of his chest then walked away. Knowing that the police would soon be called, I picked up my pace.
I exited the parking lot then scanned the area, looking for a place to rest. There was a lower middle class residential area, just north of my present position. Not exactly the kind of neighborhood that I was looking for, but good enough for the time being.
Ideally, cats and dogs want to live in posh neighborhoods. Don't get me wrong. There are loving humans from every socioeconomic level. However, most of us would prefer to live with rich folks.
I entered the residential area, then walked east on Gordon Street. I was searching for a good tree to rest under.
Suddenly, I heard the pounding of footsteps. I looked to my right then I got the shock of my life! It was a VCO! She was charging me!
She had an expression on her face that signified intent, resolve, and utter hatred. Of me, that is.
I turned away, then hauled ass! The VCO tailed me, like an ugly hyena. This creep was getting too personal with me.
The VCO began to launch profane words and accusations at me. She didn't leave out a single 'cuss word', or insult. A partial narrative will follow.
"Hey asshole, you better stop running away from me! I've got friends in very high places! I’m carrying a big gun in my holster. I'll shoot you between your hind legs. It'll hurt like hell! Isn’t that really funny?
Your momma won't like that. Come on, slime ball admit defeat!
If you surrender, peacefully, I'll go easy on you. I’m not kidding; on my honor as a VCO!"
I decided to pull the running cat trick, again. I allowed them to get very close to me during the chase. Boy, did she keep chasing and chasing.
After three hundred yards of chasing, the VCO finally collapsed onto the ground. I stopped running, turned around then ran towards her with incredible speed. As soon as she realized what was happening, she made a futile attempt at getting up.
"Who's the pathetic animal now?" I asked.
The VCO puked her brains out then hiccupped a dozen times. Her eyes were watery and non-focused. Indeed this VCO was pathetic-looking.
I turned around then began to walk away. Then, I heard an unusual sound emanating from the VCO. So, I looked back then cropped my ears.
I waited patiently to hear an apology, for her 'naughty' behavior.
In a last ditch effort to hurt me, the VCO haphazardly lifted up her arm then gave me the finger. Afterwards, her arm slammed downwards onto the concrete. I'm sure it hurt.
Seeing how helpless the VCO was, I cautiously approached her. As soon as I was within striking distance, she begged for mercy. Lucky for her, two VCOs were approaching our position. These guys were built like gorillas. As such, I took off like a cheetah.
Some VCOs can't handle a failed animal capture. They'll do whatever it takes to capture the animal. Even pulling out an unregistered gun then firing!
In some jurisdictions, if nobody claims or purchases an animal before the legally allocated deadline, the animal gets the ax. By ax, I mean: death (euthanasia, or a brutal method), biomedical lab, or sale. Whom the sale will be to is another matter, altogether.
Many shelters use lethal injections to take care of their unsellable animals. This is the most humane method of animal killing. Gas canisters (gas chambers), or a 'lethal spike' into the heart, can never be humane. Many stray cats are aware of what goes on in these creepy shelters.
Remember: gas canisters are in fact, gas chambers. Using a different name won't change the truth.
The animals inside the gas canister try to crawl out, but can't. They're squashed, and smeared against each other. I mean, there's nowhere to go. Or even move, for that matter. No need in using poisonous gas, they can die from a lack of oxygen, or excessive urine and poop splatters.
Their screams and shrieks of terror usually go unnoticed by shelter workers; but not the animals that are awaiting execution. It's really terrifying!
Let me elaborate a little. Imagine that you're cramped inside a tiny, overcrowded, filthy, gas canister. Suffocation is extremely painful and terrifying. You have to feel your pain and the pain of others around you. Puke, urine, blood, and fecal matter, are expelled from the bodies of the 'canister residents'.
The best way to deal with the companion animal
overpopulation problem is prevention and maintenance. Indeed, most cats and dogs must be spayed and neutered. Does any human out there really expect us to practice abstention or coitus interruptus? No way! Animals don't do those kinds of things. This kind of behavior is for humans only.
As soon as I'd had enough of running, I slowed down to a walking pace. I scanned the area for a good resting place. The growls of dogs and the hissings of cats was proof that I had to be careful not to tread on anyone else's territory. A cat in my shoes would have to squeeze into a tiny territory, make a powerful ally, or scram. There was no way around it.
Even solitary lions have hell to endure. Many of them are washed up former ‘kings’ or were always too wimpy to hold their ground. Dethroned lions are disgraced.
I decided to walk on the sidewalk. Although it would increase my chances of being seen by a VCO, it was a lot safer than walking through a dog's territory. That would be suicide. The incredible level of stress that I felt caused me to become a bit light-headed. I had to find a place to rest, soon. THE CHASE
While walking on Sandy Street, I spotted a spacious garage. Lucky for me, the garage door wasn't pulled down. Indeed, I went against my better judgment. However, you must remember how tired and stressed-out I was.
I conducted an abbreviated scan of the area. After determining that the coast was clear, I walked straight to the garage. With every step taken, I became more relaxed.
I could almost feel myself sleeping for a whole week. Afterwards, I’d have to search for foot.
As soon as I entered the garage, I collapsed onto the ground. I managed to get a few winks. I awakened at 11:00 P.M., to the sound of an automobile engine. I had to determine if the driver of the vehicle was a friend, or foe.
Oh, shit! Several feet away from me was a dark green van, containing two humans and three Dobermans. It was imperative that I haul ass, immediately!
As soon as I took my first step, the driver of the van blasted her high beamers in my face. Then, she began to honk her horn like a raving lunatic. No doubt, she was a cat-hater. Or, it was that time of the month for her. Don't worry. I know what I'm talking about. Female cats get that 'thing', too.
With high beamers glaring in my face, and a persistent ugly-sounding horn, there was nothing else to do but get the hell-out-of-Dodge!
As I began to pick up speed, a passenger opened one of the doors. Naturally, the three Dobermans exited the van then gave chase.
In fact, they tried to cut me off. They behaved like bulls, getting ready to bash a bull get ready to bash my brains out. Well, actually, it was worse than that.
Cats have countless enemies on this planet. Cat-hating dogs are incredible foes. They totally suck!
As I was running away from the Dobermans, they had a sudden change of tactics. One of them charged me directly, while the other two split up.
Each one covered a flank. For a split second, it looked like it was going be curtains for me. Three Dobermans could easily tear a little kitty like me, into pieces.
I leaped onto a nearby van. Then, I waited. For five whole seconds, it seemed like the entire universe had frozen. Then, I came to my senses. I leaped onto the ground, then continued running like hell.
I kept running and running. It was so bad, I actually felt like 'the fox' in a fox hunt. The Dobermans were so freaking close to me, I could smell their stinking breath. Also, one of them farted. They'd eaten fish, chicken, and liver, a short while earlier. The latter made me sick to my stomach.
Although I was sustaining a good pace, it wasn't going to last for much longer. I was breathing heavily, and felt like vomiting my brains out. Remember, cats are not known for their endurance.
To make matters worse, my leg muscles began to quiver. This is always terrifying for a fleeing animal. It meant that my muscles were beginning to give-in. I imagined myself being mauled to death by three ugly dogs.
I quickly ran into a yard then I took one last, desperate leap. It was well worth it. I ended up scaling a house. By the time I got to the roof, I fell into a stupor. Thankfully, the Dobermans had already headed back.
Although my large muscles were neutralized, I was still able to breathe out a good liner.
"Hey, can't you ugly nitwits catch a little 'kitty' like me? Come on, you guys are a disgrace to the doggy world! Well, what do you have to say about that?" I asked.
The VCOs are on their way! They've got a surprise for you. Just stay put," responded a Doberman.
VCOs! They were the last people that I wanted to see!
"You are a sucker! We were only bluffing! We made you defecate, puke, and urinate; all for nothing. We wanted to see you shame yourself. Never try to outsmart three Doberman pinschers.
Dobermans are very intelligent dogs," said one of my pursuers.
The Dobermans continued walking away from the house. At that moment, I felt like an idiot.
I waited on the roof for at least fifteen minutes. I wanted to be sure that there were no enemies lurking in the shadows. Thankfully, the coast was clear.
I got up then fell onto my side. I needed more rest time. So, I waited for another hour. Thankfully, it was enough time for me to recuperate.
I leaped onto a large branch then I performed a 'controlled landing'.
As soon as my paws landed onto the grass, I made a final scan of the area. Although there were several dangerous animals nearby, they were either tethered to a tree, peering through a window, or too depressed to take any notice of me.
ROCKY DOGGIANO
I headed north on Andrews street for a total of fourteen blocks before taking notice of a junkyard. Junkyards are excellent places to hide in, especially at night. That is, if there are no guard dogs around. Most of them hate cats.
Most junkyard dogs are trained to run, chase, corner, growl, and attack. Some of these dogs are tough enough to chase away a leopard. They can easily scare off potential trespassers.
Mind you, I was exhausted, and in dire straits. I had no option, but to enter the junkyard.
I had three obstacles to clear: a ten foot fence, the coiled wires above it, and the security system. Be it a dog, motion detectors, and/or cameras. Although I could've cleared the fence on a very good day, the coiled wires on the fence would've ripped through my flesh! Even a healthy leopard couldn't have cleared those coiled wires.
Jeepers, I wondered why the owner of the junkyard place coiled wires on the fence. Junkyards aren't like prisons, or secret military bases. They don't house a mint, or anything of the sort.
But, I had no time to ponder about the details. I had to get on the move; fast.
I decided to walk the periphery of the fence, hoping to find an opening. As soon as I reached the half way mark, a powerfully-built black dog charged me! I didn't budge because he was tethered to a wall. The hook and bolts were actually inserted through the wall, making it quite impossible for the black dog to set himself loose.
As soon as the chain was fully extended, the black dog was violently jerked back. Not quite like a rubber-band jerk, but enough to remind him that it was unwise to try to overextend the chain again. It almost looked like a whiplash. Guard dogs can sometimes behave like bulls. They 'overcharge' without thinking about the consequences.
I determined that the black dog was a Rottweiler-Mastiff mix. In other words, he was a mixed breed. I don't like to use terms like mongrel or mutt. These terms are offensive to both cats and dogs. I don't care what humans think.
The Rottweiler-Mastiff mix produces a very tough and gallant dog. This dog menaces his/her opponents. Raised correctly, this dog will fight tooth and nail, literally. Except if it is raised as a friendly or a sissy dog.
As soon as the black dog's neck snapped, he winced. I was a bit surprised at his response because he looked like he'd been a tough cookie in his prime. He had many battle scars, indicating that he was once a fighting dog.
Humans in the dog fighting business don't give a damn about the combatants. The fighting arenas are filled with creepy degenerates. They love to wager, see blood, gooey discharges, fear, begging, apprehension, and ripped flesh. Often times, when one of the dogs shows signs of capitulation, the owner shouts abuses at him/her. If that doesn't work, the combatant will be taught a very painful lesson, if he/she survives the match. I'd like to see one of these creepy dog owners fight a dog inside a pit. The creepy dog owner will then know what it feels like to be treated as a thing.
If you ever see one of these matches call the police, and get the hell out of the arena!
Drugs, cigarette smoke, booze, weapons, and crime in general, engulf the arena. So much money is wagered on these matches, guns are needed for protection.
I shoved my face up against the fence then stared down the dog. Stare downs are the ultimate challenge to a dog, or a feral cat. However, in this particular case, my intent was good. I wanted to find out what'd happened to the black dog. Really, I just wanted to help him. Is there anything wrong with a cat wanting to help a dog?
The black dog barked, growled, snarled, bared his teeth, and then backed away.
A short while later he charged me a total of seven times. I was certain he'd eventually break. So, I crossed the street, in order to let him bark and charge himself into exhaustion, while I lay on my side.
A half an hour later, the black dog had been broken. He walked back to his so-called resting place. His resting place was somewhat filthy.
There was dry urine, fecal matter, gooey stuff, and dried up vomit nearby.
Finally, on the eighth charge, the black dog fell onto the ground. Almost instantly, he began to weep. It was an incredible, but sad sight. This dog, as vicious as they come, had a 'sensitive side'. He remained on his side, without getting up. I wanted to get closer to him. But, I had to make sure that he wasn't trying to pull a fast one on me. I mean, this dog was very big and powerful. Sure, he was ugly, dilapidated, and over the hill. But, he was still a formidable character.
After locating a tiny opening in the fence, I got the urge to enter the junkyard. My feline curiosity forced me to squeeze my beautiful body through the tiny opening.
I conducted a cursory check of the area. After seeing no other potential dangers, I took several steps towards the black dog.
The black dog instantly stood up, glared at me then resumed weeping. In response, I cautiously approached him, keeping my eyes on his teeth, ears, forelegs, and tail. I was trying to detect a sudden sign of anger, or hostility. I saw neither. As soon as I was within a foot of the black dog's forepaws, he dropped down on all fours. Now, he looked innocent. I had to get closer. But, I was still a bit apprehensive. If he'd made a blitzkrieg-style attack on me, I would've been history!
I decided to inch my way ever so closer to the black dog. He lowered his head briefly, then, he raised it. No sooner, I found myself face-to-face with a powerful fighting dog.
"Don't be afraid of me. Fear my superiors. They're tough, and uncaring. As far as they're concerned, I'm cheaper than a human security guard. Although we have a security system and cameras on the premises, I'm a formidable addition. I'm supposed to terrify would-be intruders.
My battle-scarred face and body, along with my bulky physique, scare the crap out of humans and animals. You're afraid of me, too. Dogs can sense fear in others.
Don't worry my fighting days are long gone. I'm a worn-out former champion. I was later known as a CHUMPION. Even my former owner/trainer called me a CHUMPION; as soon as I could no longer defeat my opponents.
In the 'fighting pit', former champs are quickly forgotten. Fans want young, fresh fighters. Not old has-beens, who don't have any sting left in their bites or punches.
As far as protecting this junkyard, I wouldn't fight a mouse for it. However, I do put on a tough act. Charging, growling, snarling, barking, and baring my canines.
You know, dog fight promoters, and trainers, are despicable swamp creatures. Some of them would sell-out their own mother.
I apologize for the rough show of force. Please understand that I was only trying to do my job. If I don't perform the minimum actions, the owner of this junkyard will toss me out onto the street.
By the way, what's your name?" asked the black dog.
"My name is Jody Wilson. I'm from Missouri.”
"Jeepers, I'm so sorry. I thought you were a male. You're a female? Cats are so cute, males and females often look identical to us.
My name is Rocky Doggiano. I was born in Brockton, Massachusetts. I was named after the former 'Brockton Champ', Rocky Marciano.
My trainer/promoter was a scumbag. The only thing he ever gave me that I was thankful for was a cool name.
Although the 'Brockton Champ' retired undefeated (49-0), I sure as hell didn't.
During my peak years, I had the tenacity of Marciano. I never retreated. I had an incredible punch and bite. In fact, my trainer named my right cross after Marciano's Suzy Q. My Suzy Q was the best punch, ever. No dog had anything nearly as formidable or terrifying as my Suzy Q.
Jody, I've had a terrible life. I was born in a tough neighborhood. I never received tender-loving-care from any human or animal. My neighborhood doggy friends were tough and untrustworthy. They'd stab a friend or a foe in the back. No distinction, whatsoever. As far they were concerned, it was a dog-eat-dog world.
Actually, I only had one reliable friend; a cute German shepherd. She used to sneak into our yard then stand beside me. We'd talk until we had nothing more to say. I thought she really liked me. Well, I was dead wrong! She used me as a 'temporary friend'. A few months into our friendship, she found another dog. According to our neighbor's cat, he was a very handsome dog.
Ruth and Andrew Carmichael were my first owners. They couldn't have cared less about me. They tried to sell me off many times. I was described as a tough, black dog.
The Carmichaels told not to make new friends. I was to be sold to the first person who'd agree to pay the amount as for. He/she was to pay in cash, small bill, and to ask absolutely no questions about where I came from.
Jody, please don't make me your 'temporary friend'. If you want to be a real friend, do so. Otherwise, leave the junkyard at once! And don't come back!" exclaimed Rocky.
"Don't worry. I'm not like that. I'm a cat who's got selfpride, dignity, and self-confidence.
Rocky, you can count on me. I shall make you a good friend," I said.
"Jody, do you think I have cool name?" asked Rocky.
"Yes, it's really cool. In fact, you have a very nice ring name," I said.
"Now, I'll tell you a bit more about my unhappy life. When I was six months old, the Carmichaels sold me to a creep named Joey 'Kick Your Ass' Patterson. For the sake of brevity, I'll refer to this creep as Joey.
Joey was an underground dog fighting promoter and trainer. A true scum of the earth; he didn't give a shit about any of his fighters. I wasn't his first or his last.
Joey liked to beat up on little kitties, too. Sometimes, he'd bring one home and beat her senseless right in front of me. That's not the worst part. He'd laugh during the act.
Most of all, Joey loved to see two dogs going at it in a fighting pit. Especially when his dog was the one that was kicking ass.
A fighting pit's more terrifying than a ring. As soon as the entrances are closed, the exits become neutralized.
Joey was very proficient at organizing underground fights. Sometimes, championship fights. He and his creepy friends had Sportsmen’s Halls set-up throughout North America.
Originally, Sportsmen’s Hall was a place where people could watch animals fighting other animals, or sometimes, humans fighting animals.
In these matches, the animals that 'fought' humans were smaller and relatively defenseless. Not like the Roman matches.
The original Sportsmen’s Hall produced many gruesome fights. For example, there once was a man who'd chase down rats inside a fighting pit. As soon as he caught one, he'd clamp on it with his yellow teeth, dig-in then pull apart the poor rat with his hands. He'd do this for one beer. He often ended up with bits of rat flesh, blood, or hair, stuck between hi