Dear Rejected Pet Owner

I found this unpublished blog from when we tried to adopt a cat after Grayson died:




Dear fellow animal lover,

We have received your appeal to our rejection of your attempt to adopt one of our exceptional, yet abandoned feline domestici.  As explained in our rejection letter, we prefer to keep the specifics of our selection process in a shroud of double, super special top secretness so as to avoid any hint of rationality.  Plus one time, a normal family with two kids and a working Mom actually tried to convince us that they were capable of giving one of our kitties all the attention it deserved.  Ha!  We would like to know in what time defying universe they are living.

In any case, since your entreaty seemed to demonstrate such an extreme degree of pathetic retiree loneliness, we decided to grant you a one time exception and we will outline below the reasons we rejected you as a suitable parent for one of our pharaonic cats.  Get the metaphor?  The Pharaohs had cats as pets and Jews as slaves.  Guess where you fit in?

Well, first off, we are duly impressed that you were once voted as a Top Dentist in South Jersey but we fail to see how this relates to your suitability to raise one of our felines.  Sure, you would probably provide better than average dental care but predators are more than just their fangs.  We believe you can barely see past the canines and you may fail to realize there is a cat attached to every tooth.

Secondly we are gravely concerned about some trigger warnings to which you seem oblivious.  When asked about the kind of toys you would provide, you mentioned feather toys.  As most reasonably educated people know by now, using feather boas and such is an offensive stereo type of gay men.  How would you like it if we wore yarmulkes for Halloween?

You also mentioned that you would be purchasing the cat food at the same grocery store where you shop for your own human food. You further went on to explain that you sometimes buy generic store brands like frosted corn flake cereal and Lancaster Brand (Acme's store label) meats.  Needless to say, our jaws dropped at the suggestion that your cat would be happy eating store brand bits and kibbles.  We appreciate the fact that you are 56 years old and can swim a mile, bike 26 miles, and run 6.2 miles all in one day, and on a diet of iceberg lettuce, dark chicken meat, and store brand spaghetti but for the love of over indulged pets everywhere, why bring the cat down to your level of gastronomic decrepitude?

Perhaps you would be better off and you would more easily qualify for a human child through child welfare services. Perhaps one who loves hugs and smiles easily. As we all know, cats hate hugs and it seems as if you are in dire need of any type of mammalian embrace. We wish you the best of luck in your search for senescent sodality.

Best regards,

Chelsea,
Home care coordinator of Pedigreed Cats Anonymous

The Cat Nazis

This post originally appeared on Facebook where I have 56 friends as opposed to 9 friends on my comatose blog.


As many of my 56 Facebook friends, and Tammy's assorted friends know, our beloved cat, Grayson (pictured in the first photo), died suddenly last weekend. We thought we could wait until after our vacation this summer to adopt a new cat, but alas, I was way more lonely than I anticipated. Since Grayson was such a beautiful and affectionate animal (at least to those of us he didn't bite), and we had owned another rescue Maine Coon mix, we decided to try and adopt another rescue Maine Coon Cat. We found an organization online called Only Maine Coon Rescues. We fell in love with the photo and bio of one of their featured cats. The bio described him as having a bit of an attitude in that he would gently swipe at you if you "over-petted" him. He seemed to have what I like to call "catittude". A personality quirk I adore in cats. They are very independent as opposed to being extremely needy like dogs, and I love that quality. So I dutifully filled out the lengthy online application and anxiously awaited the reply. Well, three days later, I still had not heard anything in spite of being assured by the auto response e-mail that since "OMCRescue.org" is a volunteer endeavor it would be 24 hours before we should expect a response. In the mean time, Tammy had researched rescue cats on the Camden County Animal Shelter web site and she found Bentley, whose 70 year old owner had just died. Her daughter could not take on another cat so she was forced to bring him back to the pound. Bentley is the cat pictured in the second photo. Who could not fall in love with those big, round, expressive eyes??? Like a Margaret Keane character come to life. So we went to PetSmart (where the animal shelter showcases the cats) and adopted him. Well, wouldn't you know it, two days later I received an e-mail from the Maine Coon cat rescue organization. No, it was not serendipitous good news. It was a rejection letter!!!!!! And it was, I must say, more painful and out of hand dismissive than the rejection letter I received from Harvard University in 1978 (okay, I never applied to Harvard, but you get my point). I have, and this is the point of this long story, included a copy of the letter below. I don't object to being rejected if they feel I don't meet certain criteria, but for goodness sakes, allow me the dignity to understand the rules. I wasn't even granted the courtesy of a home visit by one of their, I assume, trained, feline centric social workers before being rejected. And maybe I am over-reacting, we are talking about voluntary do-goodism here, but how patronizing is it to say, we are sure you may still be able to adopt a cat elsewhere, but not from us with our TOP-SECRET, super special feline domesticus guidelines. MY goodness, if I ever had a patient for whom I did not want to fix a tooth because he never brushed his teeth, I would explain to him the importance of oral hygiene for the long term maintenance of your dental work. Start brushing and I will be happy to be your dentist. I spent ALOT of "unreimbursed" time educating my patients (the most important aspect of healthcare btw). I wouldn't just kick someone out of my office because they didn't meet my high standards of caring. But maybe that's just me, I don't know. Maybe a dialogue between two people with opposing points of view would have prevented the election of Donald Trump by the so-called unheard masses. Seriously. Cat Nazis do not further the cause of unwanted pets in this country. Maybe you disagree. I would love to hear from you, especially if you think I am a sarcastic, bitter old white man. Which I clearly am. Here is the rejection letter. Feel free to e-mail them with your opinion that their selection process should not be shrouded in Trumpian secrecy.....even if you think they were correct to reject me because I obviously have anger issues:

                                                                                                     
OMC! Rescue (Only Maine Coons Rescue) would like to thank you for taking the time to apply to our rescue group.
Unfortunately, your application was not approved.
To maintain the effectiveness of our adoption process and guidelines, we cannot provide specific details as to why your application was not approved.
We do understand any disappointment you may feel with this decision. This does not mean that you cannot provide a good home to another cat in need. It just means that something in your application did not meet the guidelines we have in place to adopt our cats.
OMC! Rescue wishes you success in your endeavors to add a new cat to your home.

Sincerely,
Only Maine Coons Rescue - OMC!
http://www.omcrescue.org
info@omcrescue.org


Here was my reply email:

Oh, silly me. I thought having owned rescue cats since 1973 would qualify me.  One of our Maine Coon mixes showed up at our door one day, and after trying to find her owner, we took her in.  She lived with us for 18 years.  She adopted us.  Maybe the cats should make the decisions, not you.

Regards,

Richard Feuer

This, of course, will reinforce their low opinion of me.  But that's the problem with fundamentalism, isn't it?  The inability to ever engage in self reflection.

What is Two-Thirds in Decimals? Redux.

 
My life thus far has been a series of minor tragedies, beginning at birth, with an undescended right testicle.  Cryptorchidism affects 3% of full term males at birth and of those, 20% will require a surgical intervention to reposition the affected testicle back into its proper housing, the scrotum.  I, of course, was one of the unlucky 0.6% who needed this procedure thus qualifying the event as an irksome, if not tragic, situation for the six year old boy I had become during the mandatory "let's wait and see if it drops" biding time.  If you missed the math by the way, that 0.6% intervention rate came from taking 20% of 3% which is 0.2x0.03=0.006.  Which, if you were asleep in  the fourth grade, is equivalent to 6/1000 or six tenths of one percent more commonly known as 0.6 %.  I only bring up the math to segue into my discussion of a far greater tragedy than my one undescended testicle and that is my consternation at the confusion caused when I tell the deli person that I would like 2/3 of a pound of oven roasted turkey meat, please.

You see, the scale at the deli counter is in decimals so the clerk needs to convert my two-thirds request into a decimal number so he/she/LGBTQ can read the scale.  If, by some miracle, I am feeling charitable I will just go ahead and order zero point six-five pounds of the turkey breast so as to avoid too much brow wrinkling on the part of the deli worker.  But because my favorite life affirming mantra is "I can't believe what an idiot this guy is", I usually go with the 2/3 of a pound request just so I can confirm my already dim view of my fellow citizens.....As if the popularity of Donald Trump as presidential candidate isn't confirmation enough.
But there is hope and the optimists at The Department of Education have a plan to educate would-be bologna slicers.  It is the educational directive known as STEM; Sandwich Technology and Eating eM.
The original meaning of the acronym had, of course, a far loftier goal of training the future engineers of America but there are obvious cracks in the plan.  The main one being the seeming lack of jobs for all those college graduates who are living back in their old room at Mommy's house.
If the middling Rutgers grads are working at "The Gap" selling casual work wear to their more successful peers in Silicon Valley, then the only hope for the STEM kids is behind the slicer at the deli counter.  But at least they will be able to fulfill my order with a wink and a knowing nod.  I'm an optimist if nothing else and perhaps we can get some of the Intelligent Design believers in Texas to send their kids to science camp to learn basic critical thinking skills.  But seeing as the man (Cruz) they sent to Washington is doing all he can to bring about the prophesied apocalypse, I seriously doubt it.

But I digress.  It just came to my attention that I previously complained about the same math illiteracy issue in 2011 so maybe, just maybe, the STEM initiative will actually help.  I would donate some money to the cause but when I Google "donate to STEM" it only comes up with charities for stem cell research.  Which brings me back around to the original point of this post which happens to be directly related to my own stem cells in that the testicle is the holding tank for their delivery vehicle.  And if my having the rhetorical skills to link thinly sliced turkey breast to a testicle is not the best plug for what an education in science and math can do for someone, I don't know what is.

P.S.  I used ambiguity in that last paragraph to make a point.  Click here to donate to "stem cell research" and click here to donate to "STEM education initiatives". 

Dear Woody

Back by popular demand the beloved Dear Woody column. Once again, the names have been changed to protect the guilty:

Dear Woody, 

Everyday I still check to see if you wrote a blog! I miss them!!! 

Love, Darren

Dear Darren,

Thank you for your kind thoughts.  But try reading a book or upgrading your cable to include HBO.  

As for the blog, I have taken the advice of many family members; If you don't have anything nice to say, then don't say anything at all.

Love,

Woody

Choices

There are not many excuses in life but there are plenty of mitigating circumstances.  A good friend of mine posted a link to the above morality maxim on her Facebook page.  Not wanting to embroil myself in an internet kerfuffle, I made one reductio ad absurdum comment and I then backed off when her reply had at least one word typed out in emphatic CAPS.  My comment-repeated here only for purposes of clarification-was "What about Sophie's Choice?  Was she alone to blame?" My point, of course, was not well received, or more appropriately stated, not fully appreciated.

The main point of the aphorism is actually quite valid and I agree with the sentiment in principle.  I am, by nature, a determinist and for every calamity that seems to befall some hapless people, I believe there lies an imprudent decision somewhere in their past.  And if some maladjusted misanthrope pulls the trigger on an ill advised caper, then he alone has chosen to do so and he must suffer the consequences agreed upon by twelve reasonable people.  Even if that reprobate was raised by five different foster families and Mom is a prostitute and Dad was killed in a drug deal gone bad.

So what then, is so objectionable about the missive that it shouts a right wing, fundamentalist sentimentality?  Simple, it's the final word; Period.  And not only does this graphic close the door on any and all discussion, but the person who originally posted it (not my friend) added a comment along with the graphic; PERIOD.  Just to make sure, I assume, we don't try to read in any ambiguities.  And yes, it was typed in CAPS.  She is shouting at us and we haven't even begun the debate!  And apparently she feels that there is no debate.  But it is not this inability to acknowledge the gray areas in life that troubles me.  It is the seeming lack of empathy that interests me about this post.  Was it about a specific incident?  Like the Travon Martin case?  I don't know.  It really seems to be just a generalized statement on the condition of man, or a man's life, since it was a stand alone Facebook post.

I deem the persons who post these kinds of missives to be normally kind and good hearted people.  At least the people I friend and know on Facebook who might agree with this maxim are kind and earnest human beings.  But to emphatically post such a missive, without an explanation about a specific incident toward which it is directed seems un-empathetic at best and condescending at worst.  Here is the delicate point upon which I tread:  I have noticed that many of the people who agree with the sentiment expressed in this platitude consider themselves devout Christians.   It seems incongruous to me for people of faith to disagree that this sentiment, as it stands in an isolated Facebook post, demonstrates a certain lack of empathy.  But I would like to discuss an observation that may lead to some understanding.

Another debate, this one with a live person, gave me some insight.  I was having a discussion with an acquaintance, who shall remain nameless, about his work with incarcerated women in a state prison.  He is teaching them so that they may earn their GED.  I expressed my admiration for his work and how both rewarding and difficult it must be.  We started to discuss the nature of the women in prison, and being the conservative libertarian that he is, he expressed little sympathy for the women as they only have themselves to blame for their situation. But he did feel it was his duty to help them.  I averred that not everyone is born with equal abilities and with the same opportunities in life (we are all born with equal rights) so we should take that into consideration when judging these women-not to excuse them-but just to understand their situation.  That way, we may better help them to make good choices.  His response shocked me into silence, a vary rare occurrence indeed.  He said "What, are you Hitler?  That is akin to believing in eugenics".  I should note, as it pertains to the current discussion, that at the outset of our conversation he acknowledged that his world view flows form The Bible and God, as opposed to mine, I suppose, which originates from the natural rights of Man a' la Rousseau and Spinoza.  Thus implying we would never come to agree.

Which I suppose is true since, I can only assume, he thinks all secular humanists who believe in a natural order theorize like Hitler (who was raised a Catholic BTW) and I believe him to be quite unempathetic for a religious man.  But it is this idea that he believes (I can only guess) that all human beings are endowed by their Creator with an immaculate free will to choose good versus evil, that interests me.  For I think this is the root of what I consider to be a right wing, Christian fundamentalist view of human behavior.  Our souls are perfect as God has created us and it is only in this corporeal life that we choose mischief.  If circumstances are not going our way, we can choose to put it in God's hands, and if we do not, we have only ourselves to blame.  Even the most wretched and downtrodden among us have chosen to look away from God.  When looked at from this point of view it is easy to see why someone who professes a life based on The Bible can seem un-empathetic.  They do sincerely want to help someone who might find themselves in an untenable situation. But they believe that  this person only has himself to blame since God has given everyone the same free will to choose between good and evil.

I am not criticizing nor condoning this world view.  I am just trying to understand what I, and other like minded liberals, perceive to be a lack of empathy by some right leaning Christians. And let me be clear that by lack of empathy I in no way mean they don't care.  I believe they do care very much about helping others.  They might have sympathy, but they do not have empathy.

This Is Only Funny Because I Didn't Break My Neck

I have been cautiously working on a blog post that has the potential to ruffle a few feathers but in the meantime I had an accident this past weekend.  The accident was aided and abetted by an improvident decision on the part of a very close associate of mine so it might have been premeditated.  Though malice aforethought seems highly unlikely as this associate is my loving and beloved wife-who is emotionally, psychologically, and physiologically incapable of even looking at a dead mouse caught in one of the various mousetraps set about in our cabin.  And so bewitched is she with the needs of the various animals in our chalet that my cat might actually be the primary cause of this mishap.  Of course, the cat wasn't supposed to even be up at the cabin this weekend since it was my sister-in-law's turn to enjoy the pastoral setting of Woodland Valley and she is uneasy around cats ever since she was bit by one during a vet visit gone awry.  But being the delightfully easy going person that she is, she agreed to allow Grayson, the cat, to accompany us on the three and one half hour car ride up to the Catskills.  Thus, it is actually her fault that I fell in the hole.

For some atavistic reason having to do with caves and lairs, my cat is fascinated with all things dank and dark such as basements and crawl spaces.  And so it wasn't very long after we bought our cabin that Grayson became obsessed by the mysterious trap door in the floor of our furnace room.  I am convinced he could smell the musty air permeating up through the gaps at the edges of the six square foot panel in the floor.  Either that or he saw me disappear down it one day when I had to check on the water pump.  In any case, if we happened to leave the furnace room door open he would meow and paw at the trap door until we shooed him away. One day we finally relented and opened the trap door for him to curiously peer into the abyss in that cross-eyed way that cats have of staring at a new circumstance in their otherwise selfish life.  And so it became routine for him to meow his way into forcing us to open the trap door for him.  We even left the ladder in the hole for him to climb back up to the surface when he was done exploring his "cave".

Being the prudent man that I am, I was sure to leave the light on in the furnace room and the door propped open with a brightly colored broom handle laying across the entrance so no one could mistakenly walk in and abruptly fall five feet down to their catastrophic misfortune.  Even with these precautions in place, I always felt a vague sense of unease about leaving the trap door open for the cat.  At least it was only Tammy and I in the cabin and we both knew when the other had left the door open for Grayson.  Or so I assumed.

Now, the cabin being what it is, a cabin, one must maximize storage space for all of the toys that go along with living in the woods.  Snow shoes, skis (downhill and cross country), boots (hiking and skiing), various poles for stabilizing oneself while engaging in either walking or schussing downhill, footwear for stream ambling, foot wear for bicycling, and of course a different helmet for each of the aforementioned endeavors.  A furnace room happens to be the perfect location for these toys since my wife won't let me hang my hiking poles on the bear hook in the foyer (mouse click here).  Heaven forbid if a guest should find out I hike in the woods by spying my gear out in the open.  But I digress.  Needless to say, this room is well traveled by me.

On most Friday evenings when we arrive at the cabin, Tammy, myself, and the cat immediately engross ourselves in the various chores that have become our routine.  Tammy disappears outside to check her garden, I set about replugging in the various small appliances that might have started a fire while we were away, and Grayson begins his vigil at the door of the furnace room meowing and whining until we relent and open that door, and then the trap door.  On this particular Friday, as I have mentioned, we had company.  So when Tammy wanted to open the trap door for Grayson, I felt an immediate sense of unease.  "Someone", I prophetically proclaimed, "is going to fall into this hole".  But as is usually the case in feline populated households, the needs of the cat come first. So we warned our guests and we left the light on in the furnace room and the crawl space and propped the broom handle as a sort of caution tape in the doorway.  Everyone, I assured myself, is aware of the peril in traveling freely about the cabin.  Once the cat had satisfied himself that a family of racoons had not moved into his cave, which usually takes about thirty minutes, he came back up the ladder and with a sigh of relief I closed the trap door.  Thus restoring a contiguous hard surface for plummet free walking about the cabin.

That Saturday dawned sunny and a predicted  break in the heat wave gave us all a buoyant outlook for the weekend.  So over breakfast it was decided that Tammy would accompany her sister and brother-in-law on a walk down Woodland Valley Rd to enjoy the serenity and I would would go on a bicycle ride to suffer on the various steep mountain roads that ascend throughout our valley. When I returned hot, sweaty and tired two hours later I was looking forward to a relaxing lunch of a couple of beers and whatever discommodious vegetarian summer salad Tammy had found on eatlikearabbit_feelgreat.com.  But first I had to put away my bicycling shoes and change into my flip flops.  If you scored well on the reading comprehension portion of the SATs you will immediately realize where I keep my bicycling shoes.  In the furnace room. Why "someone" left the trap door open, with the light turned off, and the door only slightly ajar, with no warning broom stick laid at an angle across the doorway, I have no idea.  And why this was done while I was away from the house and not forewarned, I have no idea.  And why the damn cat had to go into the crawl space at twelve o'clock on a sunny Saturday morning I also have no idea.  I do now have an idea, however, of what it is like to fall into a mountain crevasse and live to tell the story.  At least there's that.

One of multiple contusions.

I Am Pissed Off Again! And It Feels GGGGrrrrreeeeaaaat!!!!

Another assault on liberal thinking has just been launched from, of all places, Narberth, Pennsylvania.  Again.  Regular readers of my ersatz (one of my most favorite words) column will recall my opinion piece of June 21, 2013 in which I responded to a resident of this small Pennsylvanian hamlet over her misguided views on how liberals think and what they believe.  What are the odds that I would be pissed off  twice in one week from the same small town in Pennsylvania?  To be fair, this volley was not a direct hit on progressive political thinking.  It was directed more at the cafeteria monotheists among us.  You know who you are.  You like to pick and choose among the various dogmas, doctrines, and sacraments, to best suit your current spiritual state.  Yet you still believe in the one God.  Perhaps you are just confused about all the dictums-which are mostly enforced by ersatz (see?  A great word) clerics.  But it is usually liberals (and right of center thinkers) who choose to see the world, even the divine one, in various shades of gray.

Here is the letter (it was in response to an article on the proliferation of yoga studios in Philly):

Uneasy over the lotus position

Yoga is more than a system of physical exercises. There is a spiritual component that may or may not be emphasized ("Going to the mat," June 23). Most yoga teachers are probably nice people, and yoga participants may seek to participate in a benign exercise program. Indeed, people testify to physical benefits such as greater flexibility or easing and healing of certain maladies. But I don't believe that yoga is benign. It has been practiced for thousands of years and is tied directly to Eastern religions, mainly Hindu gods.

People who open themselves to those gods or spirits, even in a church, synagogue, or YMCA setting, are inviting in and engaging with other gods. Jews, Christians, and Muslims agree that there is one God, with differences. In each of those faiths, God is divine. To practice yoga is to integrate parts of Eastern religion and mysticism into people's lives, perhaps unknowingly, or in the belief that it won't matter. But people can become confused, and their priorities may become rearranged. There may be outright distancing from God. So I'm sorry to hear that Philadelphia has the distinction of ranking third in the country for yoga.

Margie Nathanson, Narberth, PA

Here is the link to the original so you don't think I made this up:
Yoga is the devils workshop.

And in case you are wondering why I am allowing myself to get so bent out of shape over what one person, whom I am sure is very lovely,  thinks, click on this link (the lawsuit was brought by Stephen and Jennifer Sedlock):
Breathe deep the gathering gloom.


My response:
Dear Margie,
cc; Stephen and Jennifer, Encinitas CA

You know what?  I actually agree with you.  Fundamental yoga practice is inconsistent with fundamental Western religious thought.  And there is that thing about worshiping false idols.  But how do you know what is in the hearts and minds of other people?  That's where you lose me. If Christians, Jews, and Muslims can agree to disagree, why can't Hindus, and Buddhists be a part of the detente?  Or secular yogi practitioners?  Aren't we all looking for the same thing, like you said, but with differences?

Perhaps I am being intellectually rigid, but if you believe Mohammad was a false prophet and John Smith was a false prophet, then you should be just as upset over a Mormon tabernacle or an Islamic mosque being built in Philadelphia as you are about a yoga studio.  And that would be just downright bigoted.