Big mostly white male.
The torti, who has six kittens still too little to be fixed.
This female, fixed yesterday, has two kittens only three weeks old.
This is the male dumped up there, who isn't really feral.
Abbytabby male kitten.I suppose I am getting used to near total isolation from people. I think, if there was a survivor type show, to see who could last longest completely alone in a remote location, I'd do just fine and notice little difference from my life now, as far as having human interaction.
Seems like a strange and unfamiliar world, to watch, peeking from behind trees or from my car, people gathered together in large family reunions or with friends to enjoy the summer and recreation. It's a world I know nothing of and probably never will.
My isolation began when I was a child. I was isolated due to the religion my parents were in, which caused me to be put in the tiny grade school operated by the church. There was rarely even one girl my age in my class. Once, there were two, a girl from a different town and the pastors' daughter. But pastors were transient to churches and often transferred and so it was with that pastor and my one little friend.
By 14 I was already being fondled nightly by my fatherm and then abandoned virtually by my parents when sent off to their religions' boarding school, where you got stuck in a room alone and did nothing but study, go to church and work. We were taught our bodies were evil, not allowed to watch TV, dance or have any fun really. My isolation by age 14, when I was sent off to that school, became complete.
When I finally went to college, in Corvallis, I had no idea how to survive amongst human beings. As young as age 4, I had begun sneaking out into the forest at night, to escape the constant negative diatribes of my ultra conservative father, who hated everything on earth, but especially women. He felt women were on earth to serve men. I was raised by the forest and animals most people would consider vermin or dangerous.
My mother went along with my father's fondling of me, and would say "It's ok, he's your father." My brothers stood by him until he died. I was the family sacrifical lamb, who then, because of such a childhood, got stuck in the mental health system where I endured unspeakable things. Still, inside myself, I remained an optimist, that people would do right, could be noble. Slowly over decades, this belief, this unfounded optimism that kept me alive through the years, sustained me, has faded.
Now I'm stuck in a concrete town without access to my own family, which is the forest, forest animals, rivers, streams. I was raised by these things and you can call it strange, you can call it crazy, you can call it whatever you want, but that hardly alters the story of my life, how I came to survive and how now, living in a concrete freeway town, void of what I consider life, is killing me.
To go through such things as a child, then to be further demoralized by a mental health system who immediately gave me all sorts of labels and deemed me faulty by nature, was a difficult thing to survive.
That my family allowed it to happen was even more demoralizing.
I went through terrible things, the deaths by suicide of many friends, and because of my very low position in society all these things, abuse, multiple deaths of friends, were deemed what I deserved I suppose or that I deserved to go through these things or should be used to going through these things. It is common to see others supported when close friends or family members die, and watch the different reactions as such things happen in droves to myself or others deemed unworthy of comfort.
Still, it is interesting to note the differences in how society views/reacts to tragedies, dependent upon the social position or endearment level of those affected.
I remember when my family all went to Hawaii. I was not allowed to go, because I was under court committment. When they returned, I suppose out of guilt or something, they wanted to stop in Corvallis and take me to lunch. Burger King. Then my father pinned some plastic flower he got in Hawaii on my shirt and wanted to take a photo in the parking lot.
If you ever went to my parents house, before they died, you would find photos plastered everywhere of their beloved sons and only one of me, one taken when I was about 13 years old, one that had significance to me because it was about the time dear old dad started fondling me. I'd take it down, when there, which was infrequent, with visits often years apart, and hide it. I didn't have the nerve to toss it over the bank into the briars, which I should have done. Then he'd gloat when he'd find it and put it right back up.
One photo of me, with raging implications.
For him to pose me in a Burger King parking lot with a fake flower from Hawaii, where they'd all gone for a family vacation without me, was too much for me to bear. The moment they were out of sight and gone I ripped it off and stomped it into the asphalt.
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