kellycrutcher1

Actually, the cat adopted ME. :) My mother, grandmother and I went to a shelter a little after Christmas last year (can’t remember the name of the shelter, but it wasn’t in our city or out of state; I think it was a few counties over from Melbourne, FL).

We went in and were looking at the different cats when this woman came in with one in her arms; we asked her if she was going to adopt the cat and she told us “No, I only work with them, I get them used to being in a home before they’re adopted”. The cat, Munchkin (the name was on her cage already) reached out with a paw and started patting at my arm. (“I want this human!” :) ) I locked eyes with her and CLICK. The bond was made. The shelter worker asked me if I wanted to hold her, I said “Sure!” She passed Munchkin over to me; she just laid back in my arms and started purring. She was purring so loud that you could hear her all over the room. Our decision (mine and Munchkin’s) was already made.

We brought her home and she’s fit right into the family! Munchkin’s not a pet to me, she’s a friend. I’m not sure what breed she is, but knowing a cat’s breed doesn’t matter to me one bit.

I didn’t change the name because it fit her perfectly. I love Munchkin so much; if I had to make that decision all over, I’d pick her again.

I’m adding a photo that I took of her. This goal was well worth completing.

I got a trickle-down e-mail September 11 2008 saying that the only friend I’d ever had since I was a little girl had taken his life. It’s killed me; it felt like someone physically stabbed me through the heart. I haven’t been able to stop crying since I got that e-mail. His name was Will Jones; I’ve added a picture of my friend to this entry.
When I found out Will had done it back in FEBRUARY and I hadn’t found out about it until September 11; it made it WORSE. He was only thirty!
Instead of boyfriend-girlfriend, Will and I had an almost “brother-sister” relationship and loved each other that way. We may not have shared a blood bond, but both of us cared deeply for each other.

The last time I saw Will alive was back in 2007; he’d spent a week with my grandmother and I and my grandmother and I were dropping him off in front of this thrift store. He was going in to try and get a job there. The memory of that last day and time are branded forever into my mind:

Will and I shared a hug, I wished him good luck and we told each other “I’ll see you later.” I had NO idea that was the last time I’d see him alive.

I’ve tried to take my life twice earlier this year since I found out; I was planning to electrocute myself. An electric shock straight through the heart would have done the job. Both times the bathroom heater was plugged in and turned on and I’d run a sinkful of water; I had one hand down in the water “reaching for a washcloth” and was starting to reach out and touch the heater when both times a member of my family (first my grandmother, then my mother) stopped me by knocking on the door. I wish they hadn’t.
Their response when I heard about his suicide was insensitive: “So what, the boy was nothing to you; it happened back in February, you need to straighten up.”
I’m crying my ass off and hysterical and they say THAT?! Will WAS something to me; he was my friend!!!

I’m not crazy; I just miss Will so much and I don’t know how to make the pain stop. Both of us loved Eric Clapton’s music; he used to play the electric guitar and I’d play the harmonica.

I still play the harmonica, but I haven’t played the one I used to play with him since September 11. I started one of our favorite Eric Clapton songs the evening of September 11, the stereo version of “Layla,” cranked the volume, blasted it through the house and played the piece along with it all the way on my harmonica as my way of beginning of grieve for Will. I was playing it for him.
I vowed never to play that specific harmonica again after that last time and I haven’t; because there’s too much pain associated with it to play it now. I carry it around though; for me it’s a way of remembering and honoring his memory.

My parents and I raised an abandoned wild rabbit when I was a little girl.
I had to a lot of walking for exercise when I was little, and the three of us were out for one of our nightly walks up and down Wallace Avenue when we unknowingly spooked this mother rabbit who’d been moving her newborn babies across the road. She dropped one baby and took off; Mom and I started screaming “there’s a baby in the road” to Dad. He came running and found the bunny.
The little thing was big enough to be held in one hand; it hadn’t even opened its eyes yet; it didn’t have any fur.
You could barely tell it was a rabbit. Anyone looking at it, if they hadn’t seen a mother rabbit drop it, wouldn’t have known what kind of newborn animal it was.
We waited a little bit, but the mother didn’t come back, so we took it home (Mom carried him home in her skirt) and all three of us made a bed for it to keep it warm. We weren’t sure if it would live through the night. We called the vet down the road and told him what had happened; he said for us to come by; he had specific bottles for orphaned newborn kittens and puppies.
The vet said yogurt was closer to a mother rabbit’s milk; we’d have to get it room temperature, water it down and bottle feed the baby; we’d have to keep the bunny warm and do round the clock feedings on it to keep it alive. We did what he said.
I don’t remember a lot of details from back then, but I do remember that our rabbit lived a LOT longer than he would have in the wild, staying in excellent health and finally dying peacefully in his sleep of old age. All of us loved him and took care of him; I named him Little Georgie after my favorite character in the novel “Rabbit Hill.”
To this day, I don’t regret one bit of it. We did the right thing and it was well worth it; we saved an animal’s life. If I had to do it over again, I’d do the exact same thing.