In defense of the sanctimonious women's studies set || First feminist blog on the internet

Halloo!

I’m baaaack! Here for the next two weeks.

Someone who hasn't been here for a while.
Miss Junebug says hello.

A Travesty of Justice

A jury acquitted a Hoquiam man who was accused of breaking into a home and throwing a dead mink at another man during a confrontation that made weasel headlines across the country.
IT’S NOT A WEASEL, IT’S A MARTEN. Nosepunch. Flee. Acquitted.

Someone needs a hobby.

Oh Prudie, you get the most special letter-writers:

Q. Animal Abuse?: Is it animal abuse if the owners of three dogs constantly denigrate their largest, least intelligent dog? They love all three of their pooches, and they shower each dog with affection, but because their largest least intelligent dog is always desperate for attention, they often call him an idiot and make fun of him. Not always to his face, but sometimes to his face. When they make fun of him to his face, they make fun of him in a sing-song voice so he thinks they’re being nice to him. It makes me uncomfortable. Is this animal abuse?

Someone take that dog away from its evil owners! Are those assholes under the impression that the dog doesn’t speak English or something?

On loving, and losing, little creatures

This weekend, I put my cat to sleep. It was not expected, and I’m pretty heartbroken. I also feel silly. There are larger and more important tragedies every day. We had three great years together, and for that I should be grateful. I know I gave him a really good life. He was just a cat. I don’t even like cats.

But oh man do I miss my little cat.

Percival was the first adult decision I ever made — my first real, long-term commitment. I got him a few weeks into my first real grown-up job as a lawyer, working at a law firm in Manhattan — a job I never thought I would be doing, and that still makes me feel far more serious and responsible than I actually am. I’m not sure why I decided to adopt a kitten; I wanted a dog but didn’t have the time, I guess, and a cat-creature seemed better than no creature at all. So I went on PetFinder and found the most perfect black-and-white tuxedo kitten named Che. He was super handsome, so my room mate and I went to the shelter to get him; she decided she also wanted a kitten, so she was going to get his brother. When we got there, there were four kittens in the litter — three healthy, shiny, gorgeous tuxedo kitties, and one teeny-tiny filthy grey kitty who didn’t match at all. The shelter lady swore up and down that the little grey was part of the same litter, but I suspect she was lying; I think he was probably from a later litter, but either all of his siblings had been adopted or for whatever reason didn’t make it, and she didn’t want prospective cat-adopters to think he was a lemon and look past him. Either way, my room mate and I each picked up the tuxedo kitties, cooed over them, and played with them, trying to select which ones to take home. The little grey one kept scooting towards our hands every time we reached into the cage. Unlike the other kittens, he was legitimately dirty, and his eyes were full of gunk, and his nose was runny, and he was slightly cross-eyed. The shelter lady told us he had ringworm, so we should be sure to wash our hands after touching any of the cats. I took pity on him, because it was clear that the pretty kitties got all of the attention and no one ever bothered to hold the messed up little grey one.

I picked him up and scratched him. He stretched his little face up toward mine, flipped his whole body into a reclining-on-his back position, nuzzled his face into the side of my boob and fell asleep purring.

He was mine.
Percival sleeping

Read More…Read More…