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February 22, 2005

Not much going on, at this point ...

But I have a few minutes, thought I'd just drop an entry in.

The ebb and flow of which cat is where is kind of a funny thing. When I wake up in the mornings, Tink and Gord usually are somewhere in the bedroom. Sometimes Doodle and Squeek, as well, but not always -- sometimes one or both of them will be in a window in another room.

Gord commences to whining about food the moment he senses I'm awake. I suppose I should consider myself lucky he doesn't start before he thinks I'm awake, though I think the reason he doesn't is because I shove him off the bed. The next best thing to food, for Gord, is a warm spot -- he knows whining forfeits that, so he holds back at least that long.

Tink heads immediately for the bathroom where, while I'm making my morning stop, she will prance around so I can pay my respects, usually walking under my legs at least once, flicking herself back and forth along the edge of the bath tub right under my nose (it's a tiny bathroom for a master bath; I didn't design the house), then licking the plastic bag for the extra rolls of toilet paper, if they're still in it. The licking of bags is Tink's way of telling us she's hungry. She'll do it at night, if I haven't shown signs of going to bed soon enough for her after Tony's gone to bed; sometimes she wakes us up with it if we've left a plastic bag on the bedroom floor.

Tony gets up way before I do, gets his shower, then lies down on the futon in the front room for a nap most mornings. Doodle almost always camps on him there.

Once I'm up and moving around, everybody shows up in the kitchen for food, of course. Even if Doodle and Squeek don't want it especially, they'll show up. Doodle eats on the divider (I don't give her very much -- she yaks it back up, if I do), Gord and Tink on the floor on either side of the filtered water bowl, Squeek wherever -- right now, it's on top of our Coleman cooler. She likes to stand on something to eat, and she won't eat out of a bowl -- the food is scattered on top of the cooler for her. She's never eaten kibble out of a bowl the whole time she's been here. She won't do it.

As soon as they're done eating, I let Max out of his crate (Tink won't eat if he's loose) and the cats retire to either the windows or the family room, where the door to the run is. It's been fairly warm the past week, so most mornings as soon as I get downstairs, I open the run and they all wander out for a few minutes, then in, then out. That's the reason, more than any concern I might have for them, that I don't open it when it's colder out. They fan the door so much they create an arctic microclimate right next to my computer.

Mostly, Gord and Doodle and Squeek go out, though Tink frequently makes one pass and then settles in somewhere warm elsewhere in the house -- most often, the back of the futon in the living room, where she can see out the front window.

Squeek and Doodle take turns soliciting food all morning, when I'm at the computer. If they can get into the run, that's the cycle -- beg for food, go outside and wander around until their feet are wet, come back in, flop down somewhere, get up, go outside, beg for food ... lather, rinse, repeat.

Tink frequently hangs on the periphery in any room the humans are in. She always did, from the time we went on our honeymoon and left her with the MIL on. I think she felt betrayed. The MIL fed her and came around, but she wouldn't have known all the interactive games we played and probably wouldn't have catered to Tink's obsessive-compulsive need to play those games for, oh, say a half-hour or forty-five minutes. In the townhouse in Clermont County, Tink used to love to have toys thrown up into the stairwell. She'd chase them up, then bat them back down the stairs until they landed at the bottom, at which point we pitched them up the stairwell again. Once we moved into the house, she started playing fetch -- she did that until we brought Doodle home, because Doodle thought she could get into the act, too, but she didn't have the smarts to bring the toys back. She'd just carry them off somewhere else. Tink quit playing, though once in a while if she's the only one upstairs and you throw a mouse or a cork down the length of the living room, she'll still follow and bring it back once. After that, she remembers we ruined her life by bringing other cats into the house and goes off to sulk.

At any given time of day or night, if we can't find Squeek, she'll have buried herself in what I had thought to be the single most unsuccessful cat bed ever made. I made it by hand, it's a structural foam box with one side open; the outside is covered in heavy flannel, the inside in polar fleece. None of the cats ever wanted anything much to do with it -- it's too small for everybody but Doodle, and I don't think Doodle liked having her view restricted in a house with three other cats in it.

When we first brought Squeek home, the thing already had been remaindered under my desk. Imagine my surprise when, one night, I looked down and saw a pair of eyes shining out of it. We tried moving it out into the room again, but she'd have nothing to do with it unless it was buried somewhere, barely accessible and you couldn't tell she was in it. It now resides under the coffee table at one end of the family room, just behind the laundry room door. Any time we can't find her anywhere else, that's where she is.

Doodle and Squeek both like to get into the cabinets in the kitchen, too. It's not that they're looking for anything -- they like to get under things, and the bottom shelves of the glassware cabinet under the divider between the kitchen and the dining room are perfectly spaced for a small cat. If we're not careful to close the doors completely, one of them (usually Doodle) crawls in there and goes to sleep. More than once we've had to look all over the house for her before going away for the day or going to bed, because she'll be trapped in there.

The worst part with both Squeek and Doodle getting shut up in places is that neither of them can muster up a decent 'meow' unless she's really ticked off. Squeek yowls like a banshee when Gord picks on her, and they both holler like they're on fire when we pick them up to clip their claws.

Sometimes, I find Gord lying under the barstools upstairs, in the dining room. There's a heat register in the dining room about a foot and a half off the floor that blows directly on the floor. He'll park his butt right in front of it and go to sleep for several hours.

Other favorite spots are the futon by the picture window in the front room, the spare bed in the second bedroom (Doodle and Tink, especially, like to kip there), the cat furniture in the family room, the leather sofa there (if there's a blanket on it) and some odder places. Squeek sometimes crawls under the bed with the dog to snooze. She couldn't care less about him, she doesn't curl up next to him, I don't think -- she just parks herself somewhere else under there.

Oddly enough, we seldom find any of them on our bed if we're not in it. The dog sleeps under there during the day, but even before we got Max nobody much used it. They prefer the second bedroom. There are litter boxes in there, that may be the reason; the headboard of the bed heaves right up under the windows in that room, so that may also give preference to that one. They do like to sleep on a cardboard storage box I put on top of my tall dresser. I threw a towel over it for them, since they've now identified it as a sleeping place. You really can't fight it, and frankly I can't see what harm it does. The only place any of them prefers that's inconvenient is Doodle and the glassware cabinet, and it's more a problem of her getting shut in there and not being able to make enough noise to get somebody to let her out than anything else.

At night, Tony usually goes to bed twenty minutes or so earlier than I do. When he crawls in bed, usually one or both of the torties joins him. Doodle will, on occasion, assert her right as a higher member of the hierarchy and boot Squeek off the bed, though if we go to bed at the same time she's less likely to do it, I guess because she gets Tony and doesn't care if I pay attention to Squeek. As long as Squeek doesn't 'horn in' on her attention, she's okay.

Lately, if I come to bed and try to read for a while, as often as not Squeek climbs up on the bed, walks across the pillow between my face and the book, then camps on Tony's pillow by his head until I turn the light off. I have to lie on my stomach to read because, you see, Tink sometimes heaves herself up on the bed for the night before I kill the light. If I'm not in the position I want to be while I sleep, she'll plant herself somewhere inconvenient for me -- so I have to hang a leg out from under the covers, or cross my legs on the bed, or somehow contort myself around her. I've been doing it so long -- she's done this off and on since she was a kitten, though she used to let you move under the covers and would just get up and resettle. Now, she'll grunt, flop around and generally express her annoyance or else make a great show of hopping off the bed in a huff.

It's the only time Tink goes out of her way to be right there with us, so I try not to discourage her from doing it. I think that was the reason she had problems with us leaving the dog out overnight. He'd crawl under the bed, and she wouldn't come sleep with us. She just doesn't trust him, I guess. Considering she was five years old before we wedged the dog into the household, and that she's pretty finicky about having things changed (at one point I went from working part-time to full-time, and that was when the occasional turd on the floor started appearing in the downstairs bathroom, where we keep the other litter boxes), I suppose we're fortunate we can compromise enough to suit her. The dog sleeps in his crate overnight, and she's okay with that.

Well, that's not the only reason we crate him, actually. The last thing you need when you're logy in the morning is an overexcited dog getting in your face. I found that out the hard way. He scratched my cornea once, which sent us to an urgent care waiting room full of flu victims who inadvertently shared the wealth with both of us, and ruined one entire Christmas break for both Tony and me.

Gord also likes to kip between Tony's tall dresser and mine. There's a heat register under Tony's dresser with a plastic directioner on it; it puts his butt right in the heat flow. All of them also will sleep on anything left on the floor in the bedroom -- clothing, mostly. Gord went through a phase of liking to wallow on my underpants, but he seems to have gotten over that. I don't think there was anything to it but that the fabric was soft -- he likes that more than the other cats do.

I ruined Gord's life for a while, a couple of weeks ago, when I went from a CRT monitor to a flatscreen. Though I put a box on my desk behind the flatscreen, where he used to sit, he won't sit on it. The CRT monitor housing was warm, you see, and Gord's a big heat sink. Fortunately, unlike Tink and Doodle, he's able to adjust -- he just camps somewhere else. We went through a big scare with Doodle once, when we'd bought a new mattress for our bed and moved the old one into the second bedroom, to put on a bed frame we hadn't set up yet. We moved the chair in the corner away from the window, you see. She couldn't get to the window, and commenced to barfing everything she ate. Cost $200 in tests and overnight observation at the vet clinic just to find out the thing that was bugging her was that we'd moved the chair away from the window. As soon as I moved it back, and we assembled the bed, no more acting out.

It probably sounds kind of wacko to somebody who doesn't have a house full of cats, but I don't think it would make that much difference between two and four, to be honest. Tink and Doodle are the nutty ones, and if we'd stopped with them we'd still be having to check the cabinets upstairs, go to sleep in the position we wanted to be in all night, never move any furniture without the expectation one or both of them would 'go off,' whatever. Gord and Squeek both handle those things reasonably well. We already had the two nutty cats in the house when we took on more, and Tink had more trouble accepting the second animal in the house than she's had with any of the other cats (the dog is a different story, not surprisingly).

Posted by Melinda at 09:30 AM | Comments (0)

February 06, 2005

Wait -- almost forgot.

We bought something last weekend.

New cat tree:


Obviously, Gord owns it.

Well, except when Tink does, of course. Nobody's on it all the time, and so far I think everybody but Doodle has managed to fall off the top.

Got it for about $120 at the local pet store -- I know I remember seeing it in there for twice that about a year ago, but I guess nobody wanted to pay that much for it. I didn't either, obviously. Paid about the same for it as we did for the old green one that was getting so shagged. I moved it upstairs for the time being -- it's right next to the picture window in the front room upstairs, now, until I can decide whether to part ways with it or not. Funny that it's better hidden in the front room upstairs than it is down here, in the back, in the family room.

Okay, it isn't really funny at all, is it?

Posted by Melinda at 05:47 PM | Comments (0)

February 04, 2005

I go off on these obsessive tangents, once in a while ...

And sometimes it's animal welfare issues. Okay, frequently it's animal welfare issues of some kind or other, whether it's more specific -- looking into things like diseases and conditions I might have to deal with at some point, reading other people's experiences with behavior problems we have around here -- or more general, like euthanasia, feeding, the shelter system ... you get the picture.

Today's little O/C vacation was the 'milling' system. What got me started on it was a perennial question, with me -- where the hell did Max originally come from?

See, as far as we're concerned, Max has no history before the month he spent with Barb (Weimer, his foster with Franklin County Humane Society in Indiana), he came in as a 'found on street' dog to her, but clearly there were few or no problems while he was with her. Aside from the occasional reflexive kick-off of his hunt mechanism, he's a model shelter adoption. See, if one of the cats darts across in front of him and startles him, sometimes he'll snarl and start after them, though he never gets to them because they're faster, and all are good-sized and fully equipped; only Tink is afraid of him, and that wouldn't keep her from defending herself if he went way off the deep end. He's smarter than that -- he knows they could hurt him bad.

Incidentally, I write off the chasing to the fact he may well have had to feed himself by snatching squirrels or rabbits -- who knows? He did manage to grab a fledgling robin out of the air once, grabbed a mouse up out of some ivy, and has cornered both a squirrel and a rabbit that doubtless he could have taken if I hadn't pulled him away.

Max may have wandered off from somebody who just didn't have the resources or energy to care for him while they had him or look for him once he was gone -- he's a very energetic dog, and emotionally needy, so clearly he would have required plenty of attention. A person or family with too many kids, too many bills, not enough time ... an elderly person who was growing too incapacitated to care for him/herself ... there are many situations I could understand somebody cutting him loose, few of them having entirely to do with Max himself. Cutting a dog like him loose to fend for himself seems singularly cruel, but it doesn't seem to have done him any long-term harm -- better if they'd turned him in directly to a shelter, there's no way a pretty, well-behaved dog like Max would have been put to sleep even at a kill shelter.

It's doubtful that Max came out of a puppy mill situation, but I guess it's possible. I think Barb would have known, though; as trusting as he is, and as good with people and other animals (not to mention the fact that he's clearly not breed standard Pomeranian, if that's what he is) it's unlikely. But I got off on that tangent today, anyway.

You see, neither Tony nor I have ever bought a pet from a breeder or pet store. Every dog he had growing up was taken in because somebody else didn't want it -- one of the dogs, he and his mother took in when his grandmother was no longer able to care for it, another they found during a snowstorm and nobody ever claimed it.

I never had any pets of my own growing up, though until I was in school there was a stream of outside cats, ending with Blackie -- an unaltered male who wound up on the shoulder of our street with his head crushed by a car's wheel. He was the last cat. Mom and Dad had a Chihuahua named Pepe (yeah, original, I know) when I was born, presumably a purebred. Between having to deal with being displaced as the center of attention and having to deal with an active, curious toddler he was a real joy to be around -- for me, anyway.

When my younger brother was diagnosed with juvenile diabetes, back when we both were teenagers, they let him research and pick out a dog ... who promptly fell ill with parvovirus and bonded with my father, then really never favored anybody else in the family as much as he did Dad for the next eleven or so years.

Robin (named after the British Olympic figure skater Robin Cousins) was also unaltered, a purebred Yorkshire Terrier with horrible flea allergies (this was before the advent of Advantage-style flea treatments, when about all that could be done for Robin was frequent bathing, chopping all the hair off his ass and Prednisone pills). What time he didn't spend lying in front of the heat registers trying to make up for the hair he chewed off because of the fleas, or chewing off his hair because of the fleas, he spent biting the crap out of everybody but my father. Sometimes, he even bit him.

Me, I never bought an animal. My first husband and I took a 'free to good home' cat when he was in the service (who lived over 18 years, well outlasting the marriage). Tony and I adopted Tink from an animal shelter. We took Doodle and Squeek in off the street. Gord was at the shelter where we volunteer, and Max also came from a shelter. By taking them in, that made for five slots at various shelters for five more animals who'd end their lives that much sooner, if we'd just left them or let somebody else take care of them.

I know that with all my animals being foundlings, and volunteering at a shelter, you'd probably get the idea that I'm anti-breeding. I'm not, actually -- but I am for thoughtful breeding toward a purpose. There are responsible breeders in the world, people who breed animals for the same kinds of reasons we adopted other people's castoffs. It's fairly common among shelter and rescue people to resent any deliberate breeding of animals, and I think understandably so -- they deal with all kinds of animals, from 'oops' animals to those bought from the most reputable breeders that the people who bought them just didn't put enough research and thought into, and found they couldn't mesh them with their lifestyles. Most of the people I deal with at the shelter where Tony and I volunteer are more like we both are about it, though -- there's a case to be made for some controlled, thoughtful breeding of dogs, though anything beyond that makes me cringe.

Let me give you a hint about what I think makes a reputable, responsible breeder -- it ain't money, and it ain't about money for them. To breed animals responsibly, people generally have to invest at least as much, if not more more, in grooming, medical treatment and care, research, etc. than they'll ever make on the progeny of their purebred, registered, good specimen animals. They do research into the lines of the animals they plan to breed, and the ones that aren't suitable they neuter and keep, or neuter and sell as pets (or with a contract that specifies they be neutered, in some cases). They agree with the people who take the animals that if anything happens and the animal no longer has its original home, they will take the animal back and, in some cases, they'll even refund part of all of the purchase price because they aren't in in for the money, as I noted.

Now, people who buy an animal at a pet store at the mall and don't get it neutered ... and without any consideration toward whether it's healthy, well-adjusted, psychologically and mentally sound, or in other ways a good specimen of its genetic line allow it go get pregnant or impregnate another animal ... don't ask me what they're into it for. I wouldn't think it was money -- you can't get an awful lot for a pathetically inadequate, non-standard animal, whether it's purebred on paper or not. Nobody who cares anything about breed standard is going to pay for your borderline mutt's puppies, and anybody who knows so little about it they don't care about anything but the breed name (and knows little or nothing about the breed standards, conformation or behavior) isn't going to pay very much. If they do, they're not too bright -- poorly bred puppies aren't worth much.

This applies to kittens, as well, but I really think the backard and mill breeding problem is more extensive with dogs because particular breeds go through fads, unlike with cats. Oh, sure -- occasionally, you'll see a Siamese or a Persian cat in a movie or a commercial, but usually the cats you see in ads, even if purebreds, look like the cats you see at the animal shelter. Tink, for instance, is one of the most beautifully formed cats I've ever seen, and she's a Porch Cat. The ex and I had somebody offer us a couple of hundred dollars for Norman Bates when he was about a year old, because this person bred American Shorthairs and thought he was an excellent specimen that would be good for adding a little genetic diversity to his lines. Bates came out of the front yard of a fellow Air Force enlisted guy's trailer in a trailer park.

There is some snobbery with cats, but most of the people involved in cat shelter and rescue, while moderately savvy about breeds, really don't care much about that. Even without breeding of cats, there would be plenty of strays. Maybe it's because cats vary from one to another almost as much as human beings do, and there aren't that many behavioral characteristics you can breed into or out of a cat, unlike dogs.

I don't know if the same is true with dogs, but anecdotally, it seems to me most of the mutts I've encountered over the years are neutered. Because dogs are more trouble than cats to begin with -- I don't care how you slice it, they take up more space, require more care and cause more trouble when they do cause trouble, for instance with neighbors -- I don't think most average dog owners allow their mixed breed dogs to breed indiscriminately. I know many men have some kind of primitive, reflexive fear of having their dogs neutered, but if they're willing to deal with the aggression and the reflexive indoor pissing that seems to go along with unaltered male dogs -- as long as they don't let them breed -- I really don't care one way or the other. Most dogs adopted from animal shelters these days are already altered by the shelters, so that cuts down on it even more. The average mutt or shelter dog adopter, in other words, neuters or has no choice, or keeps the dog inside if s/he doesn't neuter.

Most unwanted dogs who wind up their lives at a shelter have likely come, whether directly or indirectly, from pet stores. Virtually every dog (or cat, I guess, though it's been years since I saw a breed kitten at a pet store) sold from a pet store is bought from a broker, who buys the animal at auction from a commercial breeder (or puppy/kitten mill operator, to be less delicate). The hobbyist, reputable breeder breeds for his or her own pleasure and for the benefit of the animals; his or her ultimate goal is to enjoy the animal, give joy to the animal, improve the breed and potentially give joy to another owner, if the animal isn't of sufficient quality to continue to breed or to show, but is healthy and attractive and mentally sound.

The backyard or 'oops!' breeder has no goal, s/he simply hasn't thought ahead far enough to consider things like how expensive it is to whelp and raise a litter of puppies, how unlikely it is that s/he would even recover the feeding and medical expenses of a litter, etc. Commercial breeders don't care if the end-user neuters the meat machines they sell, though it would seem to me if they wanted to drive demand they'd see to it their little genetic sports were neutered so they didn't lose market share to the 'oops!' folks. Just my 2ยข worth.

Commercial breeders exist for one goal, and one goal only -- to make as much money for themselves as possible for as little expenditure as necessary. Improving the breed, enjoying the animal or providing any joy to the person who buys the animal are, if they are factors at all, secondary or tertiary factors. Number one is to get the money; number two is to avoid any liability if the animal winds up sick or develops a disease or genetic abnormality that was missed or overlooked during the operation of the extrusion of small mewling fists of meat and bone for the purpose of pure commerce.

Here are a few links on the subject:

Puppy Mill Rescue

This organization rehomes animals taken from mills that are shut down on animal cruelty violations, animals bought from mills for the purpose of rescue, and animals bought at broker's auctions. They're not shrill or strident -- they don't need to be. They show the animals in the condition in which they left the mills, and that's plenty to disgust most people.

What Is A Puppy Mill?

This site is maintained by and for people involved in both mill and breed rescues; the link is to a page that discusses various ideas about what constitutes a 'puppy mill' and some of the things that happen.

Pet Store Animals

A little bit of 'tough love' from someone who breeds for the benefit of the dog, on where pet store animals come from and what you're dealing with when you take one home.

Where They Come From

Information on all sources of animals, from reputable hobby breeders to mills and everything in between.


There are other links out there, of course, but I decided not to post any of the more activist ones, because the ones I already posted -- which aren't shrill, especially, and generally tend to present the 'ugly truth' about the whole thing without a lot of emotional garnish -- are difficult enough to sift through, especially for someone whose only contact with the breeder might be buying the dog (if you actually bought the dog from a reputable breeder).

If you want to find activist links, you can find some off the pages posted. Any site that calls commercial breeders 'puppy mills' is likely to have pictures from one of several high-profile rescues from really disreputable, cruel operations that have occurred in the past decade. There have been cleanouts in North Carolina, Indiana, Missouri and Ohio that have resulted in scattershot enforcement of the relatively weak animal cruelty statutes in the states involved.

To be fair, it's generally not the fault of the animal welfare orgnizations or law enforcement that those who abuse animals this way aren't hit harder -- the laws in most states, especially in the Midwest and near eastern states, treat dogs and cats as chattel and require little more consideration to either farm or house animals than they do a chair. If someone else kills or abuses your animal, they're likely to be prosecuted approximately as if they'd come into your house and ripped your chair, too -- as if the animal were simply property, and any damage focuses on the real replacement value, not any punitive losses.

You are likely, as with a chair, to pay more dearly for abusing someone else's animal than for your own; in some cases or states, you may be seen to have a right to abuse or kill your own animals.

And I suppose, to some degree, that's not necessarily a problem. If you're stupid, cruel or callous enough to mistreat your own animals, it's your problem and, in whatever way you believe the universe works, eventually you'll pay for it. It takes a sickness I can't begin to understand to take on an animal you only want to mistreat, but then some people do it to their fellow human beings, too, I suppose it shouldn't be surprising they do it to animals. Okay, it's not really surprising to me -- just incomprehensible.

But, then, I don't understand acquiring a cat and then spending a hundred dollars or more to mutilate its feet, either, so I guess I'm a step more toward the activist side on this one than the ambivalent. The idea that volunteering for any given animal shelter is, because of people who see animals as a computer manufacturer sees computers, trying to piss on a forest fire is, admittedly, quite frustrating. As I noted, it's somewhat less frustrating when one works with cats, since many of the cats kicking out litters aren't decisively 'owned' by anybody. They're generally ferals, semi-wild cats or strays. Often, if they're dumped, they wind up at a shelter and are spayed before they're out of the building again. Few of them would have any papers even if you could find the original owners, because a relative minority of them ever had papers to start with. They came from the parking lot at SquallMart, or out from under the porch; they wandered across the lot when the people they lived with moved away and didn't take them.

Oddly enough, so much of this is stuff I would never have thought about if we hadn't gotten a dog from a shelter. If we'd bought a purebred dog, chances are (considering how I generally approach these things) we'd have researched it to within an inch of its life, talked to several breeders and gotten references. We wouldn't have wound up with a mill dog, in other words -- it would have been a dog from a decent genetic line, one whose breeding had been considered with some care. We wouldn't have bought from a pet store, or from some germy stall at a hicktown flea market (apparently, selling so-called breed dogs at 'th' flea markut' is all the rage with the mouth-breathing knuckle-draggers in my neck of the woods, these days). Yeah, boy -- that's where I want to buy my dog, at a flea market. About says it all about Ohio, doesn't it?

Oh, I could say lots and lots about Ohio, but I still have to live here. I've already said plenty, anyway -- our animal cruelty statutes and record of prosecution for animal abuse is enough to make anybody involved in shelter or rescue embarrassed. The only thing that seems to be a priority, oddly enough, is making sure that there are restrictions on the ownership of pit bulldogs. Sha' -- cuz everbody knoze them pitz'll kill a baybee! Once they taste blud they ain't wuth nothin', haw haw haw.

Yeah, Ohio's criminalized a breed of dogs because some of its owners are freakin' morons, but it won't criminalize the abuse or killing of animals to the point that the punishment means something or attempt to put any controls on breeding operations within state lines (they have to pay something like $20 and get a certificate; they're only required to have an inspection to acquire the certificate, and there are no inspections after that unless there's a complaint that the municipality or local law enforcement deem legitimate). That oughtta' tell you plenty. Money talks, bullshit walks -- that's what it oughtta' tell you.

Posted by Melinda at 04:38 PM | Comments (0)