Oh the things you say...

A friend and I got accused of animal abuse today when we mentioned we're not above a little spanking when it comes to discipline our animals. Cass works on behavior with dogs that are considered aggressive or temperamental. I've worked with rescuing cats. She knows dog behavior; I know cat behavior. So while it hurt to be accused of animal abuse because I discpline the cats (they discipline each other but shhhh, I don't want an ACO called on them!) I also had to laugh. This gal had no idea about the importance of remaining dominant in a relationship with an animal. A cat or dog may be considered a 'companion' animal, this is true. But it is also true that without a firm hand both dogs and cats can be dangerous. Now no laughing. I'm serious. If you've ever pissed off a cat (say by trying to put deworming pills down his/her throat) you know what it's like to be on the receiving end of animalized Hell. It seriously hurts when an animal forgets that you're not the one in charge or doesn't see humans as being dominant. Just ask all those peeps who work with big predators and end up getting eaten. Yikes.

I relate it to this; Tuffy is our dominant cat. He's around 11 pounds and is a dear. Marcel, another neutered male, is much bigger and physically more powerful. So why doesn't Marcel overpower Tuffy and beat him into submission? For one, Marcel is very submissive and skittish. He doesn't want to fight. He just wants to sit in the window peacefully, watching our friend pigeon coo on the roof. Tuffy, though pretty laid back, doesn't want Marcel to forget that he's dominant cat; if that were the case, Tuffy would lose his position in the pecking-order. Marcel sometimes pushes the boundaries of what Tuffy will allow him to do.

Say there's a really, really fascinating leaf blowing around outside and Marcel just absolutely has to see what it's about. But there's a problem; Tuffy is hogging the window. Marcel perches at one end of the window and Tuffy at the other. Slowly, like a snail, Marcel inches closer and closer. Tuffy at first tolerates this. Then it gets to the point where Marcel, who probably clocks in at a healthy 15 pounds, is nearly squishing him. This is just too much for Tuffy to put up with. So what does he do? He turns around and smacks Marcel across the head. If you've ever seen this go down, you'll know what I mean. Cats are fast. Very fast. Within a blink, Tuffy has pummeled Marcel 4-5 times on the head and the hollow thuds of paw-to-skull contact reverberate through the apartment. Marcel runs off. When he does come back, he doesn't push Tuffy that far again.

Now I don't beat my cats when the crowd the window or annoy me. If that were the case, I would be throwing cats around left and right. However if they get too rough in play, or endanger themselves by getting into things they know they are not allowed to get into, if they pick on another cat, or if they start becoming destructive then I will discipline. I will tap them on the butt. You heard me. I take an open-palm hand and whack them on the behind with my fingers. It doesn't hurt but it sure as heck gets their attention. I don't think I hit them even half as hard as they hit each other in play, but it serves as a reminder. Tuffy might be top cat, but I'm the boss. If I don't want him to get into my cupboard and potentially get into cleaning supplies, then I sure as heck will spank him if he does so. And just as a note, we do have latching cabinents but we also have Susie, a 6 pound black female cat who knows how to open them. So it can happen.

I also employ the use of squirt guns. I pistol whip 'dem bitches! No. I'm kidding. I don't pistol whip anyone (though it's tempting to carry around a watergun and do so) let alone my animals. I squirt them with water because they do not like being squirted with water. However, they do like to play in water so I always wonder if that isn't why the squirt guns aren't always very effective.

This gal was confusing abuse with discipline. Disciplined is used to teach a lesson. A mother cat/dog/horse/pig/freaking whatever will use nipping or slapping as a way to remind their young that Mom is in charge and they-are-not-to-do-that. Me smacking my cats lightly on the booty is the same way their mothers would have disciplined them as kittens. I don't hurt them, but I get them to pay attention to me. There are other training techniques, yes. But good luck. Cats aren't the sort that will work to gratify you unless you give them good reason so. Meaning, yes, they'll come on command or stop doing something if you have the reward in hand, but lose that reward and you're about as useful as a plant pot.

Abuse is the harm done to an animal with the intention of causing physical/mental stress and pain. Abusers generally get enjoyment out of doing so; for example, dog fighters. Abusers willingly put their animals into position where they can be hurt whether intentionally by actually physically placing their animals there or by simply through neglect. That's the difference between abuse and discipline. I discipline not because I get kicks out of the "WTF??" looks I get from the cats, but because what they're doing is not safe behavior to others (biting/clawing during play to the point of damage) or because their behavior is not safe to themselves, such playing inside the springbox where they could get trapped for hours or days if we were not home.

So this whole thing really bugged me. But it made me laugh as well; I know I take good care of my animals be they cats, fish, or the pigeon on my roof. My animals are fit and happy. This gal threatened to find out our real (gasp!) identities and report us to animal control officers in the region. I was tempted to give her my address. Can't be found guilty of abuse when there is none.

The moral of today? Don't accuse someone of animal abuse when you have no idea what it entails.

Opening night.

Since about the beginning of the year, Google has been my quiet little refuge from the world. Gmail is a source constant hope and wonder whether I check my inbox and see messages from various rental properties or replies to my posts on my favorite PBeMs. It does a wondrous thing and signs me not only into the Gmail chat function, but also into AIM, saving me time since I do not have to download that horrendous program. Unlike my Yahoo! account, I never wake up to pages upon pages of spam. All in all, I can sing the praises of Google and Gmail to the man above for about 20 minutes (my usual attention span).

I hate MySpace. I get on about every week to clean my profile up, delete comments, and enjoy in a bout of snarky replies with those guys that just don't take a hint. Facebook is no good for blogging, though I have used it before. So where does one go? This one stumbles upon a giant 'B' on her Gmail account. Thus on one rainy, storm-filled potential day, I realize all my answers have been solved. I don't have to mess with LiveJournal and the drama that seems to stalk everyone I know on there, I don't have to stretch my creativity to make my posts acceptable for DeviantArt, and best of all, I don't know anyone who uses this. If I asked, I'm sure I would find, but right now I like the feeling anonymity. I have a diary in the drawer next to me. When Adam left for India for three weeks, it was my personal outlet. But now that those three weeks have come and gone, I feel like it's served it's purpose. There's an outlet for every stage of life. Right now Blogger fits the bill.

Everyone has different coping mechanisms. I write. I fill pages upon pages, be it lined paper or a Word document, with emotional spew. Sometimes I save it when I think I've reached some sort of summit that needs to be remembered and maybe celebrates. Most of the time though, I end up deleting my words, and I always regret it. It's not generally until after the fact that I realize how important what I said could be. I'm not talking about importance to the general population or even to my loved ones, but to me. When I delete something I've written there's always that uncertainty that follows. Did I just get rid of something that could have been of great value? Did I delete it because subconsciously I didn't want to learn what lessons might have been hidden within?

I guess you could say I'm a word hoarder. I have notes saved from when I was in middle school and high school from people I barely remember. The smallest things written by Adam find their way into my wallet, and my little brothers and sisters stories and clumsy written "I love you"s flood my drawers and mark pages in my books. I keep them there and they gather.

And that's why I established another blog. I have my thoughts chronicled.

Now here comes the hard part. I've already explained why I created a blog. I wanted a quiet little spot on the corner of the internet to blog in peace. Now comes the expected "About me" post. It's horribly common and overdone. I could shake my fist at anyone who reads this and say "Just read and find out. Develop your own opinions". In this day and age that expectation is rare. People are lazy now. We'd rather read a profile and judge based off of that rather than judge based off the words and writing. I don't have my profile part filled in yet. I don't know when I will. If you really want to know, look me up on Facebook. It's there. I'll give you the short (don't hold me to this) and sweet (my I hope so) version.

I'm Megan Hackbarth. No, I'm not ashamed to put my name on the internet. If you really want to stalk me down or steal my identity, go for it. It's not that great of one. I have no money and no credit cards so there. I'm around 5'2" and weigh...well I don't know. I do my best not to step on a scale. I have stretchmarks and the cursed extra skin that seems to accompany the average pregnancy. My hair is messy and generally hidden under a hat or pulled back in a headband. I'm not overly sociable; I don't like to go out unless it's with a close friend. I hate the stupidity of the average bar. I like quiet places where someone and I can talk or laugh without screaming to be heard. My major alcoholic loves are Bloody Mary's, mojitos, margaritas (blended please), Washington Red Apples, and whiskey sours.

I will be a veterinary technician in a couple of years and wish to focus on the rescue and rehabilitation of feral cats. I've had a lot of people ask why I don't want to be a vet or why I don't help people. A.) I don't feel like going through that much school. Vet techs. are more hands-on and interact with the animals on a more day-to-day basis. It also allows me the time to pursue rescue on the side. B.) I believe responsibility begins with the small creatures in this world. If we can't teach people how to take care of an animal properly, then how can we expect that person to contribute fully in a good way to society? Besides, just because an animal doesn't walk on two feet doesn't mean they aren't deserving of a good quality life.

And because this generally needs to be stapled on the front of every blog, I am happily in an invested relationship going on three years this upcoming October. I love Adam with all my heart and it would be insulting to me to have someone try and push me to feel otherwise. It won't happen and chances are, you head, whether literally or metaphorically, will be removed from your head. I wouldn't intrude upon someone else's relationship. Do me a favor and grant me the same respect.

I adore a lot of different things. I play an online game called PonyIsland because it fulfills my childhood dedication to My Little Ponies. Who wouldn't want their own brightly colored ponies to care for? I also am involved in Pern based roleplay. Outside the internet I am an avid reader and betta breeder. Currently I have a tank of fry growing up and it's awesomely fun to care for them. I love my bettas dearly...almost as much as I love my cats. I'm very involved with my family and have a few close friends I would do anything for. I have a lot of little obsessions that spring up now and then from Korean ball-joint dolls to pretty beads I wish I had the money for. I enjoy the steampunk culture/style and have a mild fascination with gothic Lolita. Not that I could ever afford to or pull of either of those styles. Still, they're intriguing.

I can't think of much else.