When a Cat Cafe Has to Clarify that it’s Not a Strip Joint

November 24, 2022November 24, 2022 / Tamira Thayne's Untethered / Leave a comment

Oh, I guffawed when I read the sign.

And then I wondered, “Wait, is this a clever joke or has the Naughty Cat Cafe been previously mistaken for an establishment of the night?”

I’m here to report that I don’t know. You’re welcome.

As we entered our fifth month of life on the roads of RV land, we found ourselves spending a week in Fairplay, SC, followed by a week in Georgia but just across the river from Chattanooga, TN. As such we ended up in all three states throughout the two-week period.

I strive to include at least one animal saga in each blog post, because—say it with me— “I. Love. Animals.” You too? . . . We also know there exists a fine line between animal educational opportunities and activities that further animal abuse or neglect, so not every animal story I’ve run into out here has had the happy ending we all crave.

This time it does, though.

With the Naughty Cat Cafe there was zero doubt in my mind that the cats who land here experience safety, joy, love, and beauty while they await a forever home. Hence the smile plastered on my face for the 45 minutes I spent onsite.

Making friends with the cats at this cafe was a no guilt, no sadness, all joy kinda occasion!

I know many of you scoff amongst yourselves about my unsecret Pokemon Go habit, but I’ll have you know that I only discovered the Naughty Cat Cafe because it has a pokestop out front! So there. The game IS useful in everyday life after all. [Don’t say natty natty boo boo. Don’t say it, Tami.]

Along the curb out front, one finds her/himself immediately smacked with the truth of the matter by a blaring “30 Cats Inside” sign. I presume these words engender different reactions in humans of different types and temperaments, ranging from terror to indifference to ecstasy.

I, for one, am amongst the percentage of the populace who would run, don’t walk (ok, I walked), immediately into that building. “Sign me up for meeting each and every one of these 30 cats!” I announced in my head as I sidled shyly up to the counter.

“Derp,” I said.

“Why hello, have you been here before?” asked the nice fellow behind the counter.

“Derp. Cats?” I mustered, looking around suspiciously at the cat-free room. Had I been hornswaggled?

The kindly gentleman then explained that I needed to pay $15.00 to see the cats (what?) but since they would be closing in 45 minutes I could get a discount of half off. And a “free” soda. So there was that. I paid the man his $7.50—because never let it be said that I’m above paying to make some new cat friends—but I have an opinion about the practice.

***The pristine and massive yet cozy cat room***

I could be wrong, but I think it would be better for cat cafes to ask for donations instead of charging a fee to visit. Why? Because it takes away from the beauty of the experience. Seeing and loving and caring for companion animals like cats is a gift both to them and to ourselves. When we HAVE to pay for something we’d probably happily donate for, it adds a feeling of coercion or force—these are not positive emotions I want to associate with interacting with cats.

I imagine the cafe isn’t a nonprofit and so doesn’t want to be seen as raising money, which I get, but…if I lived there I’d rarely go, because I would HAVE to pay. Yet if it was donation-based (or even one beverage minimum)? I’d stop by often. So they’d probably get $100s a year from me vs. $15. JMO. Let me know what you think.

The storefront entry room where they sell food and drinks was separate from the cat rooms due to state regs, but after you get your snack and drink you’re welcome to take them back into the cat room with you.

“Tunnels” to the litter room

The place was Ah-Mazingly Delightful, I’m not gonna lie! The cats interacted with each other and the humans in the room, and their curiosity made them a joy to be around. Each area was super tidy (I don’t know how they do it…) with nary a whiff of cat litter or other odors present! Also, the cat entryways to the litter box room [above]? Ingenious.

I plopped myself down on the floor and played with one intrepid kitty after another. Cats find my pokemon gotcha cord especially fascinating, and I’m able to lure quite a few my way with said device. Indeed, if you’re in the area and a cat lover, definitely check out The Naughty Cat Cafe and share your experience with us.

***In South Carolina we shared a meal with my good friend and partner-in-chains Rhonda Sims.***

Rhonda’s one of those women you want to envy because she’s just so damn efficient, not to mention personable, attractive, kind, and friendly. The woman gets Schize DONE. But you know if you allow yourself to envy her, you’re just being a beeyotch. It’s wiser to befriend her, bask in her aura, and then siphon a little of the magic off for yourself when she’s not looking. That’s what I do, anyway. Shhh…

Rhonda works for a children’s nonprofit, and in her “free time,” she gives the rest of her energy to the animals through her organization, Freedom Train Transport and Pit Stop. See what I mean? Disgusting. I’m tired just typing it. Looking to donate for end of year? Rhonda’s org is a great choice.

Yes, We Landed in Bigfoot Country

Our campground in South Carolina helpfully alerted us to a nearby Sasquatch Festival for that coming Saturday. Well, that might be a lark, eh?

And that’s how curiosity lured us into an occasion which proved nothing if not eye-opening. The two most important tips I learned from my trip to the Sasquatch Festival are:

1. Oh, people really believe this stuff? Confusion sets in, and then I finally realize…

2. Don’t go to the Sasquatch Festival. Well, unless you already have a Sasquatch at home, then the networking opportunities could indeed be invaluable. Also, I suspect you’d flourish there if you’re a follower of Q, or you believe that drumpf won the election, has committed no crimes, and is going after pedophiles. [Maybe to shake their hand?]

I had words with a guy at a trumper booth, and it dawned on me that—there’s a small chance—people who believe in Sasquatch are also um, prime targets for the grifts of a Psycopath-in-Chief.

The South Carolina campground left a lot to be desired. We were dumped in an area of mostly full time or seasonal renters, who tend to pile up a plethora of unsightly outside detritus. Junk. On the bright side, it was super quiet in that section because many of the renters weren’t around much, and we found ourselves sleeping peacefully until 11:00 a.m. our first morning there.

This was also the first campground to LOCK their bathrooms at night, after an apparent toilet paper theft spree. There’s always that one person who ruins it for everyone—forcing innocents to poop in the woods. I mean, most of us have bathrooms in our campers, but still…

Speaking of Doody

I know what you’re thinking. Oh, goddess, is she gonna tell us about her bowel movements again? No, because I’m doing better in that area, thank you very much. If you need more details, DM me. I’ll be standing by.

But, this may or may not be an actual conversation that occurred in our camper:

Me, realizing Joe bought the crappy small trash bags when we agreed we wouldn’t buy them anymore, grumble, grumble: “Joe, why’d you buy those lame trash bags again?”

Joe, replying from the bathroom: “Well, they were a lot cheaper!”

Me: “But we agreed we were gonna get the better ones next time.”

Joe, sounding frazzled: “I can’t poop when you’re yelling at me.”

Me, didn’t see that comin’: [Crack up, shut my trap, and concede the argument.] What else can I do?

And that, folks, is a premiere example of just how little breathing room there is in a camper.

Take a gander at my new bear shirt, above [my third, and I’ll keep collecting until I’m eaten by a bear for the ultimate in irony.]

We were at a campground with slim pickins’ for book trades, so I decided to read 127 Hours Between a Rock and a Hard Place, a true story about a hiker and his life-or-death experience. As soon as I showed the book to Joe he said, “Oh, is that the one where the guy [fill in the blank with what Joe blurted that spoiled the surprise.]”

I looked at him in shock. “Dude, I’m just NOW picking up this book, why’re you gotta ruin it for me like that?”

He feigned an innocent look. “Well, I figured you saw the movie.”

“No, no, I didn’t, which is why I thought I’d read the book. Now it’s completely RUINED!”

Then I read the book, and he was right about what happened, and it wasn’t ruined. It seems weird to say I “enjoyed the book” if said book is about a hardship endured, but the story was well-written and I just had to know what happened next. In fact, we watched the movie later and I definitely think the book is better. You?

We wandered a small town named Seneca, which featured a walkway with cat paintings and stories about Ram Cat Alley. The tale goes that in the early 1900s, shop owners began meeting the train every morning to pick up orders of meat and fish and wheel them back to their stores. The accompanying fragrances of the cargo attracted so many cats that someone said, “Why, you couldn’t ram one more cat into this alley.” And so it was christened.

We browsed Helena, Georgia, where we braved an alpine slide (I used the brakes like a weenie), switched sides on the “insert face here” sign (hubba hubba), and Joe ingested some disappointing German food.

I, on the other hand, savored my cinnamon-and-sugar-coated almonds, a sweet reminder of the Bayern Germany festivals we frequented in the late 1980s.

We agreed to yet another boat ride (is this 5 or 6?) on the Southern Belle in Chattanooga, and upon further reflection I might soon be all boated out. I mean, how many amazing lake houses that I don’t own do I need to see? Fine, maybe just a few more then.

We also rode the Lookout Mountain Incline Railway, the top section of which is ostensibly the steepest in the world, according to our conductor. If I’m wrong, you’ll have to take it up with him.

The incline deposited us at the top of Lookout Mountain, and then we hiked a trail through the Point Park National Park before hopping on a later incline back down the mountain.

Last but not least we spent hours at Rock City, which surprised me in that it was unlike anything I’d experienced to date. I almost didn’t go because it seemed there’d be lots of high rocks to scramble over or heights to fear. It’s not like that. A one-mile walk carries visitors through caves and slender passageways, imaginative rock gardens and carvings, or visions in art and verse; in fact, there were only a few spots where the heights were too much for me. I was able to duck back as far as possible and scoot on by the scary part without dying.

I found Fairyland Caverns to be the most magical place, whereas I’d wrongly presumed it would only provide a “Wow Factor” for children. Nope! The artists painted scenes from fairytales into cave recesses, and by the second or third one I found my chin dropping at the level of detail that went into each piece.

See Rock City! [I wasn’t paid to say that, but it was painted on lots of barns in the area, and now it just comes out. Their advertising dollars at work.]

Happy Thanksgiving to All who Celebrate

We’ve just hit Texas (my blog’s a couple stops behind), and will be attempting to create a scaled-back version of Thanksgiving dinner for two in a kitchen made for one. I’m sure it will all be fine…fine…fine…

Have You Started Your Holiday Shopping Yet?

I offer signed copies of all the books you see to your right, and they make great gifts for the animal lovers in your family. Just visit my site at tamirathayne.com to browse or make your selections.

Michigan and Ohio Bring Beaches, Bears, and a Brief Visit to My Dying-or-Maybe-Not Mother

October 10, 2022October 10, 2022 / Tamira Thayne's Untethered / 2 Comments

The end of summer found us leaving New York and making a mad dash for Ohio and the Hungarian Food Festival held in Parma, which coincidentally took place the VERY day we were slated to arrive. Who knew?

Joe, that’s who.

Did you ever think you were on a trip around the country for one reason—such as seeing the beauty offered by each of America’s states—and then slowly become suspicious there’s a whole ‘nother reason for the trip you didn’t know about? No?

Just me, then.

I’ve told you a few of my issues (don’t worry, there’s more to come, and you’ll be oh-so-intrigued!) but my husband isn’t packing a light carry-on himself. I’ve always known he had a bit of a passion for Hungarian and German food, and have planned his birthday celebrations around these restaurants in the past because they bring him joy (and I get wine).

[He’s 100% Hungarian in heritage, and we were stationed in Germany in our youth so he developed a fondness for the cuisine, by way of explanation.]

I’m now starting to suspect our camping spots and times are coordinating a little too closely with nearby events of this nature and/or Hungarian or German restaurants to visit. I will continue to investigate these suspicions and keep you informed.

All I know for SURE is I had to get up EARLY two days in a row to make it to Ohio in time for this Hungarian festival, and I am 100% sure that’s not what I wanted to do.

But I love him. Right? Probably. So I kept the whining to a low roar and begrudgingly crawled out of bed and into the truck.

It was pouring rain by the time we arrived at the festival, but poor weather deterred exactly zero local Hungarians from turning out, and lines were long for each of the food offerings. I amused myself by battling other pokemon players in the on-site gym, while Joe partook of all his favorites, plus packed up an extra helping for later.

Secretly it feels good not to be a huuuge dickus maximus about what he wants to do, but someone’s gotta save him from himself, you know? There’s a fine line between supporting his interests and turning into a walking crepe. I’m personally on guard against the latter…

My Mother Gets Covid

*My mother in better times, doing a book signing at her local library*

I’ve written about my mother on here before, but in case you didn’t know or remember, she has very late-stage dementia, and is now ten years into her diagnosis. By this point she is nonverbal and can only walk with help from the bedroom to the living room. Her husband Chuck has been determined to keep her at home, so he brings in help five days a week, plus gets other local assistance as he can.

When Mom doesn’t feel well, no one knows until she goes down because she can’t tell them. By the time she was hospitalized she’d already been heading downhill for days, and a test at the hospital confirmed pneumonia and COVID. When my brother went to see her, he was told she was probably not going to make it due to the level of health compromise she’d started with and where she stood at this point in time.

Joe and I rushed back to PA the next day, lucky that their house was only four hours away from our campground in Ohio. Tootie came too but we left the camper, figuring that Joe could go pick it up in a day or two if the worst should come to pass.

I was very torn in my feelings. I knew my mother would NEVER want to live this way, and my heart broke for both her and Chuck every time I visited. The truth is I lost my mother years ago, and the shell that was her body continued on without a permission she’d never given. She always told me she wanted to go to the heaven she believed in, so maybe COVID would finally end her long nightmare and bring her wish to her?

But the hospital put her on paxlovid, plus IV fluids and antibiotics, and damned if she didn’t make it through! By day five of her hospitalization her lungs were clearer and they said she could go home that Friday. Shortly after she arrived home her condition boomeranged, but Chuck decided to keep her at home and allow her to pass peacefully if it was her time. My brothers and I agreed.

Yet here we are—weeks later—and Mom is eating and drinking again, although still confined to a hospital bed in the living room. It seems her mind has been long ready to leave, but for whatever reason her body continues to cling to this place.

We arrived back at the campground in time for one day of sightseeing in the small town of Ashtabula along Lake Erie before it was time to move to Michigan.

I’d really been hoping to visit my animal rescue cohort A.C. Wulff while in Ohio, but alas it was not to be, so here’s a shoutout to A.C.’s blog with links to current and recent projects. Next time, my friend!

Beaches and Bears, Oh My

We’d hit Lake Erie in Ohio, and realized in Michigan we could step foot on the shores of THREE Great Lakes: Lake Michigan, Lake Huron, and Lake Superior. Look at us go!

First we took a jaunt up north to Mackinaw City, where we met some bears AND locked eyes on Lake Superior and Lake Huron, all in the same day.

I had read Bear in the Back Seat and the author—a wildlife ranger—mentioned a place in Michigan where you can watch bears in natural habitats of large fenced and wooded areas without being at risk. Naturally I was intrigued about such a place, and determined to see it for myself one day. I was nervous, though, because if the bears weren’t happy and cared for, then I too would be in the know and miserable about it.

Since going there I’ve done some research, and I’m still thinking on how I feel about the place, which will probably engender a blog post all its own. For now I will relay two things I felt were positive, and two things that made me uncomfortable.

The bears looked healthy. It was end of season for them, and they were packing on pounds for hibernation. Their coats were shiny and most seemed content. The big males and the young females had woodland acreage to escape the prying eyes of humans when needed and where they could dig themselves a haven for their long winter’s nap.

But the owners of this place allowed and hawked pictures with cubs, which is just wrong and creepy and very ala Tiger King. The cubs seemed distressed, pacing in an enclosure with a cement floor and looking for a way out, and there was no way in hell I was participating in that kind of exploitation. Super lame.

Which in the end made me question the motivation of these folks. Is this place really here to help bears or are they using bears for their own ends?

More to come on this when I further collect my thoughts…the world is seldom as black and white as we wish or think it should be.

Except for Nazis. Those are always bad. Trust me. I’m lookin’ at you, trumpistas.

The campground—which was oddly called Bear Cave RV Campground and actually sported it’s only little cave under the camp store and office—left a lot to be desired, and provided no sewer line for most of the campsites. The only thing the place had going for it, IMO, was this beautiful turkey who called it home and roamed the grounds clucking and eating all day long. Yay, something I could feed! She was surprisingly not a fan of dried fruit but loved nuts.

And lastly, we came across this young man escorting a turtle across the road, AWWWW. He— the turtle, not his escort—was of the snapping variety, as fortune would have it. That poor man fared better than Joe and I when we sought to provide the same service to a snapping turtle: we tied up traffic for ten minutes for a dude who was much more interested in killing us than getting to the other side! We were embarrassed and soundly beaten into submission, a day that lives on in infamy…in our minds at least.

Until next week, I bid you adieu. Or, as the Czechs would say it (my duolingo practice is finally paying off), Na shledanou.

The New York Stork Brings My Kind of Babies…and More

September 24, 2022 / Tamira Thayne's Untethered / 1 Comment

That Thing I Both Dread and Look Forward To Has Come to Pass—I Met Cats

I know that you know that I love critters. I try to be an equal opportunity critter admirer, but a loosely-guarded secret of mine is that cats are my fav. I can’t help it! As early as I can remember I was dragging cats around with me, apparently even preferring them to my Easter basket and, gasp, chocolate.

I love how soft their pelts can be, and I most adore snuggling up with them and burying my face in their oh-so-delicious fur. It’s my favorite form of therapy.

As such I’ve been both looking forward to meeting cats on the road and dreading it, because if they are in dire straits I know I will be forced to take action on their behalf. Which sounds like a lot of emotional pain.

Plus, if the cats are the “property” of another, the situation can and often does end badly, since these folks are seldom interested in help or opinions. Rescue peeps encounter situations like this daily. God love ya.

For some inexplicable reason, we found ourselves spending a month in New York state, including three weeks at a campground outside of Malone near the Canadian border.

Here, as fortune would have it, lived three striped brother cats.

These boys “belonged” to the owners of the campground.

They were not neutered.

And often hungry.

However—being cats—they made ends meet by wisely working the campground crowd for their fill of snacks and snuggles.

It didn’t take them long to identify their softest touch, me, who scrambled to serve them a heaping bowl of yum anytime they made their way to my doorstep.

The most gregarious of the three is this boy; I nicknamed him “Finally,” because I was FINALLY in some kitty-lovin’ heaven. Once he marked me as his primary food source I saw him every day, and was rewarded many times over with purrs and snuggles when his tank was topped off and he was feeling a bit nappy.

*A river, a bug-free zone, a cat, and a book. Need I say more?*

It wasn’t long before his shyer brother joined us (all stripes, no white), but I didn’t meet the third and final brother until we were readying for departure. By this point I was totally in love with Finally and Furrily, and worried about them getting enough to eat when I was gone. Did the owners expect them to hunt for their food? Would they provide more nourishment when the camping season was over? Would they get them the vet care they needed, neuter them? I didn’t know.

I prepped two big bowls of food that morning and fretted when the boys were no-shows. I tucked the offerings behind a tree so the cats could find them but they wouldn’t be so visible (and tossed!) by campground staff. Then I spotted the now-familiar stripes and white paws sitting down for a bite, and raced over to greet my baby. Finally! But wait…there was no white stripe on his nose! Here indeed was the elusive third brother, in coloring the middle ground between the other two boys. He ravenously gobbled down both bowls, then I quickly refilled them before I left in hopes that all three could enjoy one more meal on me.

Now I think of them often and wonder if they’re ok. As much as I enjoyed seeing their little faces and providing them sustenance, I’m probably better off NOT meeting any more campground cats. I’ll be plum overwhelmed with all the fretting.

I Love Me Some Rivers

We camped beside a lovely river in Malone, the sound of which provided a soothing background noise for sleepytime. I even bought a tube and bobbed on down the rapids, with Joe taking slow-mo video of me making a run over the tiny waterfall.

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I had a blast! Until, that is…I discovered my new wedding band that Joe bought before the trip was missing from my left hand. Oh, god…I lost my wedding ring. In the river. From which odds of recovery were virtually nil.

Quick. Hide me from Joe! Oh, don’t bother: I have a blabbermouth, so I immediately fessed up. Needless to say, Joe was an unhappy camper and I’ve been in the naughty chair ever since. Way to spoil my own fun. Note to self, and you if you’re listening: Remove all rings and other jewelry before tubing rivers.

What’s Even WORSE than The Fridge Opening During Travel? Damn DampRid, That’s What.

DampRid starts working as soon as it’s exposed to air. The little round whatever-they-ares are full of vim and vigor, and before you know it they’ve sucked up all the moisture from the environment and the little plastic container is now full of liquid instead of pellets. Genius, you say to yourself. I need 100 more of these things. NO!

No you don’t.

Trust me, this is one of those lessons we learned the hard way. The real hard way, and so maybe my tale will inspire you to CHOOSE ANOTHER PATH. Duck those DampRid “geniuses.“

You see, the top of the DampRid container is just latticework because the air needs to get IN, but if you somehow spill the ensuing liquid? Just throw the entire camper away and start fresh. It’s your best option. (Don’t believe me? Check out these poor frantic bastards trying to get the stuff OUT of their carpets, closets, and floors.)

The day started off so lovely. We patted ourselves on the back for ensuring the fridge door was locked, and I told Joe, “Wow, we didn’t even fight this morning getting on the road! We’re really getting the hang of this camping thing.”

Universe: “Not so fast, ya losers.”

When we reached Malone it was my job to get Tootie into the camper and set up with her food and water, open the pull-outs, and start putting the insides back together. Joe deals with the outside stuff like the septic, water, and electric. I immediately spotted the new DampRid container on its side beside the stove, but assumed it was no biggie. “You got this, Tami,” I sez to myself. “Just a teensy spill, you’ll have this wiped up in a jiff.”

But a half hour later when Joe finished his chores and had the temerity to step inside, he found me in a puddle of goo, tossing potatoes out the camper door, and crying that it’s everywhere and IT. WILL. NOT. GO. AWAY.

And it burns!

The stuff is just wrong. When you get a paper towel and try to wipe it up it just IGNORES YOU. Gives you the natty natty boo boo raspberry. And stays right where it is. I’ve never seen anything like it. We’re still finding it on the floor after EVERY move, and we DON’T KNOW WHERE IT’S COMING FROM.

Time to buy another camper.

Other Coolness from New York

We caught up and went to dinner with a couple we met when we were stationed in Germany more than 30 years ago; neither of us had seen them since. Unfortunately, we forgot to take a group photo as a memento of the auspicious occasion, so you’ll just have to take my word on this one. Shout out to Bob and Carmen for a wonderful reunion.

This pic is from Joe’s going away party in 1987, and yes, we’re well-aware we don’t look like this anymore, but thanks for pointing it out! The years have not been very very kind…

We visited Fort Ticonderoga, at a whopping price of $25 each for admission to the property. We thought that was steep, but it did include a tour of the fort, the museums, and a trip up Mt. Defiance as well. The tour guide—umm, how to put this kindly—babbled and rambled for at least 350 hours (or 20 minutes, but it was HOT outside), detailing each and every battle that took place there until my eyes glazed over, my brain short-circuited, and I fell from a parapet. Not really, but that might have been preferable.

Joe won BIG at the casino, a whopping $14, while I lost my whole $10—which sounds about right. We took a cruise of Lake George on the Mohican (lovely), went to a demolition derby (trumpery and covidy), and broke down and started paying Elon Musk $135 a month for Starlink. We don’t regret the decision, though, because internet out here has been anywhere from nonexistent to horrible. We were at our wits end, I tell ya! Now we can stream and do most anything we want online, and phew. Relief.

And finally, we got to watch my son graduate from one of his Air Force Schools through zoom. Congrats, Rayne! I’m a proud momma.

***Below, some funnies to make your weekend a tad brighter.***

A Chitty Sitcheeashun and a One Trip Overkill to Canadia, Eh?

July 28, 2022 / Tamira Thayne's Untethered / 4 Comments

*Showing off my considerable panorama skills. No, I wasn’t drunk, but Joe looked skinny so he was a fan.*

Maine, Part Deux, and Canadia, Parts Un & Deux

We wanted to skip on over to Canada (or Canadia, as the hubs calls it) without taking our camper, so for Part Deux of our Maine stay we picked a KOA campground in Houlton, Maine, just a couple miles from the Canadian border.

We scored a nice end spot, and overall the campground was neat and well-cared for, better than most. Moving day sucks in general (picture making your house mobile once a week to get what I mean) but there’s always a twinge of excitement too: What will the next campground be like? Will there be bears and moose and no trumpers and we’ll meet our new best friends who are as cool as us (yes, I understand the bar is low)? OOOh, the possibilities are limited only by the camping imagination!

Inevitably when we arrive we see that there are no bears or moose, and we don’t know who in their right mind gave this place a five, but hope does spring eternal, eh? Without hope for better, I presume humanity would just melt down into a puddle of depressed goo and call it a day.

Holes in the curtains? Moths? Maybe bullets? Idk

Joe planned an overnight trip and hotel stay at the Chateau Saint John in Saint John, New Brunswick, so we could explore the Bay of Fundy and whatever else might catch our eye.

Although the room was pretty normal in terms of a mid-range hotel, I hadn’t realized just how affected I’d been by our new RV lifestyle. I was agog at the size of the place, plopping my booty down on the FULL-LENGTH couch and calculating that our room was twice the size of our camper. Not only that, but I mentally installed a small kitchenette next to the wardrobe and declared that I could totally live here.

[On the bright side, when we do decide to buy a house again it should be affordable…anything the size of a hotel room and I’ll feel like a queen.]

Saint John is home to the Reversing Falls, which we eventually came to understand as a function of the ocean meeting the Saint John River—when the tide’s low the “falls”—more like rapids or eddying pools of water—go in the direction of the bay, and when it’s high tide they reverse and go upriver. According to this link, “five thousand years ago, sea level was 30 meters or 100 feet lower in this area. Native people living here at that time enjoyed an impressive waterfall!” Now? Think whirlpools.

I wouldn’t bother going onto the Skywalk, a paid attraction, because the views are better from the bridge and the park on the other side anyway, and they’re both free.

As we walked across the bridge I was touched to see a series of messages aimed at stopping people from leaping into the churning waters below. My humble gratitude…

The next day we drove the Fundy Trail Parkway before heading back to the campground and the Good Ol’ US of A. I confess I hadn’t missed the country I call home due to all the political turmoil and general slide into the horrors of Gilead. We paid $11 each to explore the Bay of Fundy coastline, a true beauty which put me in mind of the drive along the California coastline.

Unbeknownst to Us, a Chitty Sitcheeashun Unfolds Back at Camp

I was nervous about leaving Tootie alone in the camper overnight, a reminder of why I’d initially planned the trip without the comfort or concerns of traveling with companion critters.

Joe assured me that the camper was the same as a little house, meaning that while we were gone Tootie would have electric (i.e. air conditioning) as well as her meals and a clean litterbox all available to her. She’d be fine.

I fretted “what if” the power went out, or “what if” someone broke in, or “what if” a bad storm blew across while we were away. Would Mommy’s Little Girl be ok?

I let my daughter know where we were staying—just in case the worst should happen—so she could rush up to re-rescue my little Tootiekins.

It would turn out that there WAS a bad storm while we were in Saint John, and the cozy, sleep-inducing pitter patter of rain on the roof is far from the reality of enduring a storm in the equivalent of a rather large tin can. Tootie was probably scared—well, more afraid than usual—but at least she still had AC, my main priority.

As I jumped out of the car and raced to the camper door, my subconscious noted a whiff of doody in the air; I didn’t spare it a second thought, though, because my priority was first and foremost Tootie’s well-being. Besides, it didn’t take me long to learn that “whiffs of doody” are a part of everyday life in the RV world. Dogs are frequently dropping off packages here-there-and-everywhere, and each camper is sporting its own personal sewage system.

Chit Happens.

After making sure my baby was ok—she was—I sagged into my chair and snapped my recliner back into the “AHHH” position. “Finally, all is well and I’m home, relaxin’,” I sez to meself.

“Honey, we have to move spots,” Joe bellowed [at least in my mind], bursting through the door. “We’re right next to the septic tank, and someone flushed wipes and clogged the line. It’s overflowing all over the place out here.”

Oh, that’s what I smelled?

[I didn’t think to take photos of our noxious dilemma, no. And I was not the picture of wifely acquiescence; let’s just say “words were said” and fur was flown.]

Eventually, we did move to a spot further up, we got one night free, and the septic broke two more times while we were there. Luckily by then we were well clear of that particular war zone.

We Shouldna’ Done it Twice

Joe and I made the mistake one time of going for a jaunt into Canada. And by jaunt I mean just a little in and out (like an hour or two), unplanned, on-the-same-day kinda’ trip. We thought nothin’ of it. Joe had flown with me to an animal conference in Montana and we rented a car for the final leg to the event location. When we realized our hotel was close to Canada we thought we’d just tuck in to have a look-see and then come along right out again.

They thought we were drug smugglers.

I mean, they didn’t say that to our faces, but apparently anyone who crosses the border for just a matter of hours is highly suspect of being some kind of smuggler, and drugs seem like the obvious choice.

[This is one of those things you don’t get if you’re not a bad guy. We were super confused when we got searched going into both countries.]

After we barely escaped with our lives, we made a pact never again to go into Canadia for the day.

Then we did it again.

There just wasn’t much to do in Houlton. Joe made the durn-fool decision to look for more of nature’s wonders in Canada, and found a covered bridge and some falls not too far from us.

“Hey, we should go see this stuff in Canada on Thursday,” he told me.

“We said we’re not going into Canada for the day ever again: remember Montana, remember the pact?”

“No, I don’t remember that,” he eyed me quizzically. “I’m sure it will be fine.”

“Right,” I grumbled, knowing I would live to regret my mealy-mouthed ways.

They thought we were drug smugglers.

We were questioned extremely thoroughly by a grumpy Canadian border guard [apparently they exist] then the truck was searched by two more on our way into Canada, and when we came back even the U.S. guy eyed us up mighty suspicious-like.

This time I mean it. I’m NEVER-ever-AGAIN going into Canada just for the day. Trust me, you shouldn’t either.

Woot! The Longest Covered Bridge in the World. Ostensibly.

My Bookclub of One

Campgrounds have this cool free library kinda deal—often in the laundry room or rec area—where you can leave or take a book that strikes your fancy. Sometimes these libraries are massive, spanning bookshelves, and sometimes a half dozen titles sit pitifully on a stand.

Even though I brought both kindle and paperback books with me, I decided to choose one random title per stop as a way to expand my book vocabulary.

At this stop I chose The Summer I Dared, by Barbara Delinsky, and wouldn’t you know it was about an island of lobster fishermen? Sigh. But at least one of them was concerned about conservation and ecology etc. so I guess that’s something…and, she writes well. The protagonist of the story is a woman who always neglected her own wants and needs to please her family and her husband, and she finally says “No more.” I wonder how many women can relate to that? Oh, I’d probably be a bad book blogger, eh?

A Couple More Funnies

Found at Maine Walmart. Are you kidding me? Yes, please.

Me: “Aw, I love cows.” Joe: “No, you’re not adopting one.” Me: “Of course not. You gotta adopt TWO so they have a friend.”

Just when you think you and your hubby couldn’t be any more different.

Joe and I sometimes use the same first Wordle word so we can compete more fairly. I agitated for this concession because he was beating me by an average of 3-1, but I contended that he had more luck at picking the first words and so the results could be swayed. (I learned this logic from drumpf.) Now I think I’m slightly ahead by 4-3, but on whatever day this was (above) we both used ALL the same words…isn’t that romantic! Maybe I do love him after all…

P.S. We toured a potato chip factory in Canada…maybe some things are best left unseen. Just sayin’.

Maine, Maine, Where Have You Baine All My Life?

July 18, 2022July 18, 2022 / Tamira Thayne's Untethered / Leave a comment

*The view from Cadillac Mountain, Acadia National Park*

Oh, my goodness. I’d never baine to Maine before (yes, it’s a word, they’ll be adding it to dictionary.com any second) but I’m in LOOO-VVVV-EEEEE! Where to start?

One of the goals of our current nomadic lifestyle is to find a state we’d be happy retiring to, and for me Maine is leading the pack thanks to its beauty, coastline, lakes and rivers, and lack of drumpf signs—proven to cause eye spasms and other sundry stress-related illnesses in those with dumpty-allergies. However, we have many miles to travel before such a lofty decision can be made, so I’m tucking my oh-so-humble opinion away for later perusal as we traverse the rest of this fine nation.

The Fridge Fracas

I told you we were total camping newbs, right? Turns out this is good news for you, because I’ll have an extra large barrel of “mistakes were made” stories to dole out as we go along. Yippee!

It seems that the refrigerator locking mechanism, seen above, becomes an important tool to prevent meltdowns and loss of food resources as said camper gets yanked along from Point A to Point B. In this case we undertook a 248-mile trek from Littleton, Massachusetts to Ellsworth, Maine, where we plopped ourselves at the Patten Pond campground for an 11-day stay.

We’d been on the road for only twenty minutes when Joe said to me, “Hey, did you remember to lock the fridge door?”

I gave him the side-eye. Was I supposed to? “No, why, did you?”

“No,” he frowned, watching the camper sway in the rearview. “It’ll probably be fine, though, right?”

“Yeah,” I said in my most reassuring voice. “I’m sure it’s all good.”

NO! No it isn’t, ya dorks! By the time we bounced ourselves into our next campground, most of the fridge and half of the freezer were rolling around on the camper floor. We were able to salvage much of it, and we considered ourselves lucky when we saw what DIDN’T fall out of the fridge—the oversize jar of dill pickles with its requisite buttload of pickle juice. Whew, that was a close one…

Animals in Name Only

The Patten Pond Camping Resort had their streets named with a local animal and then a word starting with the same letter. (Except for Owl’s Way, which just messes with my OCD.) “OOh, how exciting,” methinks to myself. “I would totally name my streets that way too. (Except for Owl’s Way, which—as I’ve mentioned—just messes with my OCD.) “I can’t WAIT for all the animals I’m about to meet! In 3-2-1…”

Have I told you I like animals? Maybe. Well, I do, and the highlight of each stop for me is always the wildlife. But alas, in Maine I was stymied at every turn. We took the Nature Tour boat ride and only saw seals from afar (nah, we won’t take our binoculars, why would we need those?), hiked and encountered no bears or rattlesnakes (which was probably good, though, now that I think on it) and didn’t even share our campsite with a chipmunk.

But I know they’re out there somewhere; they’re just waiting to get to know me better before revealing themselves. The supply of wooded acreage in Maine is ample and the animals have tons of space to avoid humans, which I grant them is the most smartest move.

The Campground

Our train excursion in Ellsworth, $18 ea.

The Schoodic Peninsula, SHHHH, Don’t Tell Anyone

We found out about The Schoodic Peninsula from the volunteers who run the Downeast Scenic Railroad (above), which we tested out on Sunday. They only do excursions on Saturdays and Sundays, and are a nonprofit with some dedicated volunteers at the helm. As long as you’re expecting a slow, pleasant ride through some woodlands and the town of Ellsworth, you’ll get your money’s worth.

The bottom of Schoodic Peninsula is part of the Acadia National Park, but most people don’t go over there because it’s an hour drive from Bar Harbor and the more well-known Park attractions like Cadillac Mountain and Thunder Hole. For me Schoodic was the hands-down winner, both because of the gorgeous views AND because of the lack of crowds.

So I’ll tell you about it but let’s just keep it between us…if you can only pick one, pick Schoodic. If you can only go on a weekend, choose Schoodic. The Mount Desert (pronounced dessert, I know, don’t get me started) park area is ALWAYS more crowded. Always. No matter the day.

We hiked the Anvil trail…easy my pattooti…I was lucky to survive.

The first day we drove to Schoodic, we set up our chairs along a gorgeous swath of coastline and I commenced reading and snacking with abandon; “ah, this is the life,” methinks to myself. “Finally, I’m livin’ the dream—beautiful weather, beautiful view, quiet, treats, and a book.”

Unfortunately for me, Joe was as antsy as a kid on a sugar high. “Shouldn’t we go hike the trail now before it gets too late?” he blurted out on more than one occasion, ruining my peaceful enjoyment of my surroundings.

“Argh,” says I. “I just wanna read and take in the scenery, why can’t I do that? Fine, then,” I grumble, mumbling to myself about how I’m comin’ back here and reading All. Damn. Day.

Which I did. Only the next time I played it smarter: I made him walk BEFORE we sat by the seashore, and told him he had to stay until I was ready to leave this time. He took a nap, which was fine and dandy by me. The longer he slept, the longer I got to relax.

*Aw, he was plum tuckered from our hike*

At Cadillac Mountain we met an artist who was painting the scenery on tiny little copper canvases; seeing talent in action is so inspiring. [Should I take up art again? Nah…I’ll just watch others create, SOOO much easier.] We also explored my fear of heights further (yes, it’s alive and well) and Joe’s unfortunate need to make jokes about plummeting over the edge as my anxiety skyrockets. I’ve heard this is a man thing, but let me be the first to assure men this IS NOT HELPFUL. IN ANY WAY. Thank you.

Should we Talk about the Lobster in the Room?

One of my animal rescue friends texted me: “Tami, make sure you go out on a working lobster boat while you’re in Maine.” We’re still buds because of my kindness and easygoing nature (eh-hem), but I do have to admit he got an earful in return.

I mean, I was already engaged in a fruitless attempt to ignore the very existence of the Maine lobster fishing fetish. I hadn’t realized at first that the buoys I was seeing throughout the water belonged to lobster traps. I thought they were guidance buoys, and when it dawned on me what they actually were, Joe used his patented technique to distract me from the coming animal rant. “Do you see seals out there?”

My head whipped around, “Seals, where?”

“I didn’t see any, I just wondered if you did. Any chipmunks?”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “I know what you’re doing, ya sneaky bastage.” Truth be told, it usually works, because then we bicker about his distraction techniques instead of him listening to me rant, which he must find an acceptable tradeoff.

Luckily for me he doesn’t like seafood.

I found a raw bar restaurant that offered fancy buffalo mushrooms! They were delicious.
But I had to eat them while seeing this poor dead lobster at a table nearby. Seriously, people. WTF.

A piano in the town square, which was never short of a musician

Bar Harbor itself is quite lovely, with a plethora of restaurants, harbor and Acadia tours, and souvenir shops. I decided that when I was annoyed by an animal industry, I would buy myself a passive-aggressive t-shirt to make myself feel better.

Animals eating people is always a good choice. Until I get scarfed down by a bear of course…then it won’t be so funny, eh? But I’ll be dead, so maybe I’ll still get a good chuckle out of the irony of it all.

I Can’t Believe it Happened!

Last week when I suggested campgrounds prohibit political signage (you realize before drumpf NO ONE was dragging political signs camping with them, right? Who in their right mind?) I figured it was a pipe dream. But when we hit Maine the campground rules had the following:

Halle-effin-lujah! It finally happened. Now I can’t leave Maine.

Tootius Maximus Gets a Fix

Everyone’s got their way to escape, eh? But Tootie, as a feral cat, doesn’t have much of a life outside this camper. She’s certainly not a cat I can outfit with a harness and leash and walk around the campground, or even let her sit outside with me. She would be terrified and find a way to wiggle out of the harness and that would be it for her. She’d be gone. And I’d be wrasslin’ with a whole tankful of guilt and remorse.

But when I see her sitting in front of the screen door and wistfully looking outside I get sad for her too. Like her mommy and daddy, she used to eat her feelings, but now she can’t because of her throat issue, so she’s forced to eat to live rather than live to eat.

I wanted to enrich her life, but she’s not much for toys at her age. “She does love herself some catnip,” I muse. “Except she usually makes a huge mess by rolling in it and eating it before finally passing out covered in the stuff.”

Still, it was one thing I could offer her to give her a moment of escape, no matter how brief her “high” lasts. Joe picked some up for me at the store and the second it arrived she was out of her “office” and searching for it. This was rare for her in the middle of the day, so I knew she had caught the scent but just couldn’t find it. After letting the anticipation build for just a few more moments I put a small amount on a towel and let her go for it. She did not disappoint! I tried giving her more the next night, but she showed little interest, so I guess catnip will be a once a week special treat so she has something to look forward to!

*More of the beauty that is Acadia National Park*

Joe made me bike again on a trail by the rail line, *[I’m starting to realize this is a bad idea]* and I didn’t want to get sunburned. He claimed my hat was my “anti-rape kit,” which is probably politically incorrect, but I laughed anyway. I’m also pretty sure my age and general presentation have already taken care of that for me. Except that since rape is more about power and control than looks I supposed it could happen to anyone of any age. Ugh.

My friends are starting to send me memes with a little something in common. Should I be worried?

East Hampton, CT, Land of Father’s Days, Anniversaries, and Family Visits

June 29, 2022 / Tamira Thayne's Untethered / Leave a comment

*One of the funny signs seen while camping in East Hampton*

Happy Father’s Day, Male Readers! What, that was a week and a half ago? Well, no matter. Keep in mind that I thought of you that week, and make this retroactive to last Sunday like a good lad. There ya go.

Here, I’m leaving you this funny sign that was probably written by a man, which doesn’t in any way interfere with its ability to amuse. You’re welcome.

Camping signs are a definite “thing” out here in the RV world, and I’m all for anything that can make me lol. Therefore I’ll be kind enough to share with you any gems I come across in my travels. No need to thank me—I’m generous like that.

I love the word “amok,” don’t you? It’s just funny without even saying another word, which is a rarity. In fact, one of my favorite lines from a movie is in Two Weeks Notice, where Hugh Grant is eating cheesecake and he says to Lucy, aka Sandra Bullock, “There’s something amok with this cheesecake.” In his English accent? Hilarious. [Turns out it was made from tofu, which probably wasn’t as good back in the early 2000s, but is downright tasty these days. I’m looking at you, Daiya.]

Signs in Campgrounds Should be Funny or Kind…Not Anxiety-Producing, Amiright?

Turns out there are signs that aren’t amusing in any way, and I don’t understand why campgrounds won’t make their sites a politics-free zone. You know the ones I’m talking about. Ones that, say, worship a man who led a cult to assault our Capitol and our democracy? Yeah, that one. We trundled our way up to Connecticut, a blue state, eager to escape the stress-inducing world of drumpfdom.

The first sign I saw as we pulled into the Markham Meadows Campground read, “You are Now Entering a Stress-Free Zone.”

“Oh, Hallelujah,” methinks to myself. “Finally, I’m in a sane place and can relax into the moment.” Then we schlepp around the corner to park our camper, and lo and behold run headlong into yet another disturbing sign of drumpf worship—and it’s directly across the pond from us. I despair that this particular disease has spread well beyond the borders of trumpland, and folks like me are being ideologically assaulted everywhere we go. Bah.

All these campgrounds already give campers a list of rules you have to abide by; how difficult would it be to add one little rule that reads: “No political signage. Everyone is out here to leave daily life behind, so please leave politics at home and be kind to your neighbors. Thank you.” There. Problem solved!

The 11th Anniversary Bargain

We celebrated our 11th Anniversary on our first whole day in East Hampton, and a bargain to forego cards and gifts FOR THIS YEAR ONLY was struck in advance due to space constraints in the camper. I had to be very careful to ensure that the hubs understood this was a ONE-YEAR EMBARGO only, because he’s fully capable of extending the policy ad infinitum if I don’t keep an eye on him every second. How do I know that? There is precedent.

Consider this . . . every year we hold this particular discussion at Easter:

Me: Are we doing anything for Easter?

Him: We aren’t religious, we don’t celebrate Easter.

Me. The Bunny doesn’t care if you’re religious or not, The Bunny brings candy for ALL.

Him: But we aren’t religious.

Me: Buy me some fucking candy.

See what I’m sayin? He’s a sneaky one. He has also attempted to deploy the same argument in favor of boycotting Christmas, but that test balloon never made it off the ground. I’m watching you, Bud! (But I’ll always love you…)

We ate breakfast at a little local diner, and then headed in the direction of the coastline hoping for some beach time. We landed at a harbor in Old Saybrook where there wasn’t a beach per se, but there was putt-putt, so we shrugged our shoulders and the challenge was on.

Joe and I are both a trifle too competitive. He will deny it of course, but I for one shamefully admit to being the bearer of a competitive nature; he won’t even play Scrabble with me anymore because he claims that I get mad if I don’t win by ENOUGH. I don’t think he has any evidence to back him up on this foul accusation, though, so it will have to forever be his word against mine.

I immediately claimed the right to choose his putter for him and handed him the tiniest one for the tots. To get even he pulled the one for Andre the Giant out of the rack for me, and the game commenced.

I was distracted by the local pokemon go action (don’t be judgy) and by the third hole I was already bleeding profusely. I made the ultimate sacrifice of putting my phone away so I could focus on the task at hand, but my luck never improved and I was soundly trounced by my loving husband.

After the match we once again went in search of a beach, but Old Saybrook was charging between $25-$40 just to park at one of their beaches if you weren’t a resident. Highway robbery, I tell ya’. Nah…that wasn’t happening.

Visiting the CT coastline? I’d recommend doing a little better homework than we did.

In the end a nice dinner (Impossible burger for me, yum) and a couple different ciders rounded out the day nicely.

I wore my “how would you like it” dog chaining shirt in commemoration of our glorious nuptials, because I’m sure we’re the only ones in the world to ever have a doghouse wedding. We got that going for us.

Grandma Pat and the Laundry Conundrum

This would come up as a topic of discussion at some point, so we might as well thrash it out now. I have a teeny tiny laundry issue—that’s not really even worth mentioning really—except it impacts my joy of travel.

I spend less time pondering the fun things we can do on our trip than the following crazily important questions: “What about laundry? Can I do laundry there? Is it gross? Crowded? What if I can’t do laundry for weeks at a time? How will I survive?”

I’ve never liked laundry to pile up, because then it seems overwhelming, like it’s something you’ll never get done. I’ve got enough overwhelminginity in my life without adding dirty laundry to the list. My fairly normal OCD worsened from my years in dog rescue, because then EVERY DAY became overwhelming. Not only did my laundry need to be done but all the dog laundry too. AAAHHHH!

I felt a touch bit better knowing we were going to visit Rayne’s grandma Pat; not only because I love her to pieces, but also because she’s a laundry nut too. She’s constantly doing laundry and even grabbing our laundry when we visit, so I knew she’d be onboard with us dragging our dirty clothes along behind us. We even washed our sheets and our comforter, so I can breathe a little easier for a week or two! Whew.

Dishwasher Despots

Every family’s got one: that person who knows the ONLY right way to load the dishwasher, and spends half their lives re-arranging it along behind the rest of the family. God help ya’ if you have more than one!

Joe is ours. Brynn and I never cared enough to argue about it with him, so we’d just shrug our shoulders and save our energy for more important battles. We don’t have a dishwasher out here on the road, and I think Joe relished the opportunity to put his considerable skills to use at Pat’s house.

Except here he ran into an immutable force: a fellow Dishwasher Despot, in her own territory! He was outgunned. As it turns out, there’s MORE than one right way to load the dishwasher, and Pat took the opportunity to school him on the REALLY real correct way: hers.

I simply sat back and enjoyed the show. In fact, “relished it” wouldn’t be a stretch. Sometimes it’s just the little things, ain’t it?

This week we’re in Massachusetts, and I will regale you with more splendiforous tales soon. In the meantime, enjoy some more photos from the campground and other Connecticut delights.

Markham Meadows Campground and Old Saybrook Harbor

Pat’s kitty door. Heck yeah! When I get another house I’m totally getting this door. Love it!

Oh, and P.S.

I put my Imagine: Life on a Chain novella into paperback and kindle formats if you’re interested in reading it or purchasing it as a gift. Audiobook to come soon.

I will definitely be offering nonprofit pricing to any groups who’d like to purchase to give away or sell at booths. Just reach out to me through my site at tamirathayne.com.

I don’t have it up on the site yet because I’m still figuring out how to make time for writing and publishing while I’m on the road, but I’ll get there!

Imagine: Life on a Chain

by Tamira Thayne

The dog awoke, feeling more uncomfortable than usual—which was saying something, given that he was chained to a dilapidated box the size of a grocery cart.

The world seemed off, the neighborhood quiet, even the woods behind him hushed—like everything waited…

He shifted uneasily, sniffed the air.

What was that? He brought his head up and inhaled deeply.

He didn’t recognize it—and yet…and yet. Something about the odor nudged a memory from his mind, of a time when life held promise, when he’d fully embraced the naïve enthusiasm that came with puppyhood.

He tugged on the mental string, and the flashback overwhelmed him. He sagged onto the ground, assaulted by memories of his first home…

• Based on true-life stories of rescue dogs •

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-954039-20-9
Paperback https://www.amazon.com/dp/1954039204

Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0B4BD34S8

Untethered Tour Stop One: Home in PA, an Engagement or Marriage?, and One Angry Feral Kitty

June 14, 2022June 14, 2022 / Tamira Thayne's Untethered / 1 Comment

The Untethered Tour has officially begun! I’m not gonna claim that our first stop was particularly auspicious by any means…but every beginning is still a beginning, no?

New to the blog? If so, all you need to know to catch up is that the hubs, yours truly, and my feral cat Tootie are spending the next year traveling the U.S. in search of freedom (not the idiotic “patriot” kind), adventure (no rock climbing for this girl), and any interesting animals and people we meet along the way.

Since the three of us are freakishly shy, you can expect us to meet more animals than people. And by “meet animals,” I probably mean just awkwardly spying on them in the wild. Through the window. As one does.

Before we could commence on this daring adventure, however, we had to be out of our house by the end of April and Joe still had over a month of work to go. So he dropped me (and dear Tootance) at my mother and stepfather’s house in Bellwood, PA, so I could make myself useful for a couple weeks. My mom suffers from advanced dementia, is no longer verbal, and unable to care for herself; her husband Chuck is determined that she won’t die alone in a nursing home, which is so “god love the man” of him.

Mom with Chuck and her caregiver Celia. We went for walks on nice days.

I hadn’t seen them much since the pandemic started, both because I lived four hours away and because I was terrified of taking them out with covid. I knew he had his hands full, but without spending the three weeks with them I wouldn’t have understood the extent of his sacrifice.

Sisterly love. My Aunt Bee comes down a few times a week to help get mom to bed.

A huge Shout Out and much respect to all caregivers of dementia patients. To lose your husband, wife, or parent to this disease is horrific and cruel…the person you love is gone long before their physical body follows.

Watching Chuck behave so lovingly with my mother, however, gave me chills. He’d tease her by talking in a falsetto, and then he’d laugh and kiss her while she just looked at him like “who the eff is this dude taking liberties with my personage, I’ve never seen him before in my life.” He was inspiring.

Once in awhile, though, once in awhile, a slight smile would lift her lips and I’d be left to wonder how much of the world around her might still be getting through. As a test, I sang and danced for her daily, but she, alas, remained unimpressed. I mean, I’ve been told I’m a “very determined” dancer, so I can’t imagine she wasn’t secretly enthralled by my performance. She just has a good poker face.

Tootie mostly hid under the bed. What can one expect from a feral cat, anyway? She does love her mommy, though, so she would come up and cuddle me at night, yet never became comfortable enough to venture out during the day, what with all the “stranger-danger.”

After Mom and Chuck went to bed, however, party Tootie came out to play…or lay, as the case may be. Whatevs. At least she was out!

Joe picked me up Wednesday the 8th, and we drove the 12 miles to our campsite in Duncansville, PA for the next five nights. Why so close you ask? [Damn, it’s gonna take these moe-rons three years to cross the country at this rate…]

We had a reason, I promise. My handsome, almost 29-year-old son Rayne and his girlfriend Kristin got engaged, and we could hardly miss my first child’s engagement bash! That just makes for bad family drama, which we’re obviously way too mature for. (Duh.)

We decided to pick up Tootie the next evening, because we still had a lot of work to get the camper in order, and—to be honest—we were terrified of wrastling her out from under the bed. The little turd bit me recently when I was trying to give her medicine, so I’ve been left with a pretty healthy respect for her general chomper area and tend to avoid pissing that part of her off.

As a disclaimer, I fully hope that she will eventually “get” what we’re up to and docilely toddle into the crate to be moved from the camper to the truck and back on moving days. We remain far from this goal to date.

The wrastling went as poorly as one could expect, and included ferocious growling and gnashing of teeth. Tootie wasn’t happy either. I was a little too fluffy to fit under the bed (eh-hem), so I had to scour the garage for a primitive cat-sweeping tool, finding a set of old crutches which would fit the bill. I quickly learned that Tootie must have had a bad crutch experience in her past, because she immediately set to attacking the offending “cat sweepers” in a most unladylike manner. The ensuing battle spilled from the bedroom into the laundry room, where after some more “persuasion” she was finally cornered and morosely slipped into her crate, pouting in the corner.

I would have taunted her for being such a sore loser about it all, but I’d prefer not to have my face ripped off in the middle of the night; I wisely kept my commentary to myself.

Plus, I love her. She a little Tootie Monster, after all.

Engagement or Marriage? It’s All Very Confusing

I love my kids. I love that they are so different from me and from each other, and I love that they have minds of their own. And that they are pretty unapologetic about it, too! As they should be.

Rayne’s cousin Jack, Joe, Me, Brynn (back), Rayne’s grandma Pat, Kristin, and Rayne’s aunt Lisa

Rayne asked Kristin to be his wife on a ski trip in March, and—as women are wont to do—she immediately went into planning mode while Rayne looked about for a hiding spot. They worked it out amongst themselves eventually, and settled on an engagement party this year and a wedding at the Outer Banks next year.

Then they threw a wrench in the works by getting “technically married” at the courthouse so she will be listed as his next of kin when he goes off to school for the Air Force Reserves. But they still had the engagement party and the official wedding is still on for next year, so seize the day, you do you, and all that good stuff.

I love Kristin to pieces, and warned her that she picked a bit of a clunker family to marry into, but WELCOME! Guess she’s stuck with us now.

*One of us has one pair of shoes out. The other has four.*

Happy Camper Tips

Drugs. I recently started taking anti-depression meds for the first time in my life, and I wonder why I didn’t do it much sooner! Now me and the other ladies I meet bond over our meds. Ha. And I’m much less concerned about the little things. Which is important when taking the plunge on a change like this! Campground is creepy? Stay inside and read, you say? Sweet, I’m in.
Have a partner who likes to plan. In truth, Joe doesn’t like to plan either, but he’s been on the hook for most of it so far. Turns out his ex-wife did most of their itinerary stuff when they were together, so I figure why can’t we just ask her to plan our route? Seems like a wise compromise to me.
Learn to live with your partner’s messiness. I want to be neat. I think I have the gene for it, somewhere buried under all those years of dog fostering. I don’t often succeed, but when it comes to a space as small as our camper, my mind automatically rejoices, “Yes, NOW our house can be unsullied, flawless even! Surely Joe will see how important it is that we keep everything in its place and then we’ll be the happiest of campers forever after, amen.” Wrong. I’ve mostly given up on my dream of the perfect little camper home already, and we’ve just hit our second campground. If you want to know how I’ve gotten over it so quickly, a reminder to see Tip #1.
Don’t travel with a feral cat. The reasoning on this should be obvious to everyone who isn’t me, but just in case: the reality is that if said cat escapes the confines of the truck, camper, or carrier, you may never lay eyes on the angry little kitty again. No pressure, though.

Scorecard

I wouldn’t rely on me for great camping advise. I’m a total newb. That being said, I’ve been to three campgrounds so far, and Wright’s Campground in Duncansville made the top two. I think if you get a decent spot, you’ve got a full hookup, and they keep the place looking cared for and the grass cut, how bad can it really be? After all, we already bring our “hotel room” along with us. The people there were nice and the place was cared for. It was small and basic, but it worked for us!

Sightseeing at the Horseshoe Curve

I’m from the area but Joe isn’t, so we made an effort to visit one tourist attraction while we were in town. We chose the “World Famous Horseshoe Curve,” because anything world famous must be Ah-Maz-Ing, right? Most locals have been there, kids even take field trips with school like I did as a youngster, so it’s worth a looksee if you happen along. It cost us $8 for the two of us to get in with military discount, and we waited an hour for a train to decide to show up. With 50-60 trains per day, we obviously hit the lunch break or something, but there’s also a museum where I learned that during WW2 Nazis were arrested for planning to blow up the Horseshoe Curve. See? I told you it was THAT important.

For Pokemon Go players such as myself (no shame!), the Horseshoe Curve sports a gym and a coupla stops too, so go throw me out when you get there so I can get my 50 coinage.

Speaking of Not-sees, the Cult of Trump still has to trumpet their loyalty even as their golden boy goes down for attempting to steal an election in what’s supposed to be a democracy. I’m out here tryna’ forget about all things drumpf, but these constant reminders could drive a girl to edibles. What states are they legal in nowadays, anyways?

Today we landed in East Stroudsburg, PA, so if you have any tips or animals for us to meet, give me a shout! See you on here next week with another tres-exciting update.

*Road cat—as opposed to road kill—but just a little less grumpy.*

Peta’s ‘Convenient Lie’ is Alive and Well. The Chained Dogs They Rescue? Not So Much.

November 9, 2021 / Tamira Thayne's Untethered / 1 Comment

I have a subscription to The Washington Post online. Today’s blog is just another reason I wish I didn’t…

I mean, you know when Trump is president and you’re effin’ convinced you’re about to die any minute and you’re so freaked out about what he’ll pull next that you subscribe to a good newspaper so you can plan accordingly for the end of the world? And then you spend the rest of your days reading and obsessing over things like the next civil war even though you live by a peaceful river and should spend your days meditating instead?

Yeah, it’s like that.

And then even when Trump is no longer president but you still see a level of national insanity you can’t believe you continue the subscription because it’s obviously not OVER, and you come across an article you think you should read about animals.

About why People are so Horrible to Dogs, specifically. And it’s something you know a little something about, because you spent 13 years trying to save dogs from all manner of horrible conditions. So, hey, maybe this article will help you understand WHY people throw dogs out into the backyard on logging chains like it’s the right thing to do even though the answer to WHY never manifested in 13 years. But they’re probably smarter than you. It’s a must read then, right?

Here it is if you subscribe or it’s one of your monthly free articles.

Only if you want to be driven further insane. Because by the end you’re still left with no definitive answer to the WHY question, and now you’re just damn sad for the dogs and livid that Peta is still effectively gaslighting everyone with their “Convenient Lie” that they are somehow doing the dogs a favor by killing them.

Spare me, Peta. SPARE THE DOGS.

Although I’m personally on board with this man’s theory for the WHY of dog chaining:

“Nicholas Dodman, a veterinary behaviorist who co-founded the Center for Canine Behavior Studies at Tufts University, doesn’t buy the Darwinian argument, or all the ancillary explanations, which he sees as excuses for the inexcusable. This sort of cruelty, he says, is, at its dark core, a heartless character flaw: Some people suck.”

“There are people,” Dodman says, “who sell their home and move out and deliberately leave a dog behind. Days later someone comes in and finds the dog starved.” It’s happened enough, he told me, that Maryland has legislation outlawing it. “The fact is,” Dodman says, “there are people who have empathy and people who don’t.”

It’s not a BAD ARTICLE. In fact, it’s very GOOD EXPOSURE for the plight of the chained dogs and their suffering. Take this, for instance, from the article:

“This bond came naturally: Humans and wolves are both pack animals. We are both built to team up with others to survive.

“How has this relationship gotten so corrupted, then, and so profoundly, and so often? Is it about promiscuous anger: lack of resources and social powerlessness, leading to impotent rage — the kick-the-dog phenomenon? Are the dogs an emotional tool — something people can control in a life otherwise almost empty of control?”

I’m only a short way into the article when I realize the author is riding along with Peta. “Ugh. This will not end well,” I tell myself. “Do NOT get attached to the fate of any of these dogs. They’re all—or most of them at least—dead.”

I’m proven right.

What is astounding and yet super scary and creepy is the fact that Peta has now taken a page out of Trump’s playbook: take the villainy public, openly admit to it like it’s ALL GOOD, NOTHING TO SEE HERE, while gaslighting us that “there’s just no other choice in the matter. It’s for the dogs’ OWN GOOD that we kill them.”

Peta used to try to hide the fact that they kill all—MOST—of the animals they take in. Now they’ve changed tactics: Convince us that WE’RE the ones with the problem if we don’t understand why they must be killed. Sounds like some Auschwitz bullschize to me.

I’ve spent fruitless hours arguing with other animal activists about the FACT that Peta kills the animals they “rescue.” I’d like to think this article would put an end to at least that portion of the argument—since employees flat out admit it here—but arguing with Peta acolytes is like arguing with Trumpers. You might as well just gouge your own eyes and ears out and be done with it, because you’re not going to get anywhere.

Here it is, by their own admission, in black and white:

“PETA embraces euthanasia because it believes that there are too many animals in the world sentenced to live dreadful lives, and that in many cases humane death is preferable. Each year PETA kills a lot of animals.”

As an aside, I’ve also maintained from the start of this hapless era of “alternative facts” that most dog chainers were Trump supporters, at least among the White population—having seen the yard signs in front/chained dog in back with my own eyes—only to have rescuers I respected take themselves off in a huff for the comparison. But I’m not the only one with that opinion:

“Dodman believes there is also a political component to this: Red states are more likely to have no laws against tethering, or laws that wanly attempt to limit the practice without addressing its inherent cruelty. Purple states, too: Pennsylvania “limits” tethering to an excruciating nine hours a day and primly stipulates that the tether must be at least “three times the length of the dog as measured from the tip of its nose to the base of its tail or 10 feet, whichever is longer.”

“People who mistreat animals,” Dodman concludes, “are the same ones who mistreat people.”

Now, back to Peta:

“The woman outside the Champs Chicken — Jennifer Smyth, a public school teacher — thinks PETA people are world-class hypocrites, animal murderers masquerading as animal lovers. She was referring to an incident in 2005 when two PETA workers were caught shoveling trash bags of dead dogs into a public dumpster in North Carolina. The animals had been humanely killed to prevent worse fates at the hands of poorly run local kill shelters, but the means of disposal was cold and horrific, a very public error in judgment, and resulted in a lasting stain on the organization’s reputation.”

“Nachminovitch defends widespread euthanasia, and it is one of those stances you can either respect or abhor. She says that on any given day, she’d make a deal where, in return for being allowed to free every deeply abused animal she found, she’d have to kill all of them. She knows how this sounds but doesn’t care. Ending their pain — psychic and physical — is the point, she says, bluntly: “The lives they are being forced to live are not worth living.”

I’ll take ABHOR for $1000, please, Alex.

Seriously! Eff this woman and every single person who buys into this load of bull hockey. [Yes, I’m trying not to swear here.]

Take the Blinders off, People. Once Peta FREES the Chained Dog, The CHOICES for that Dog are No Longer Just These TWO: Suffering at the End of the Chain or DEATH. Now There is a THIRD Option: A Loving Home Where They Live Inside and are Given a CHANCE to Be a REAL Dog.

You see, Daphna, once you take these pups off the chains, THEY ARE NO LONGER BEING FORCED TO LIVE IN WAYS THAT ARE DETRIMENTAL TO THEIR PSYCHIC AND PHYSICAL HEALTH. Except by YOU. Because now you could CHANGE that for them.

Derp.

After all, that’s supposed to be the beauty of being an animal rescuer. The JOY of knowing that you made a difference for a dog, that you brought happiness where none previously existed. THAT’s what being an animal rescuer is all about.

I’ve had the privilege of pulling hundreds of dogs from chains. I call it a privilege because that’s what it was. Even as stinky and misbehaved as these dogs were on the day of their release, I got to change their lives for the better. I got to give them what they deserved, what they needed, what they wanted. Spoiler alert: IT WASN’T DEATH. There was no greater high.

I never, not once, took a dog immediately to be euthanized. Could it happen? Sure. If a dog is just too aggressive or so ill that they were already dying, it would be the kindest thing to do. But those times are few and far between. Most dogs just need love, a place to decompress, vet care, and good food and water. Nothing complicated.

It bears repeating: It never happened once, not in 13 years, for me.

Not even for Doogie, who was the closest to death I’d met five years into my rescue career. When I asked the vet what his odds of improvement were, if he should be euthanized, he looked me in the eye and told me “he deserves a chance.” And we gave it to him. Doogie knew six months of love and family; he got to live inside, walk again, explore a backyard, and scarf lots of treats.

That’s what rescuers do. They try their best for the dog. And if they fail, no one can accuse them of not giving it their all.

What Peta Is Too Lazy to Do But They Have All the Money in the World to Make Happen

It’s my opinion that Peta kills most animals they “rescue” because they’re too lazy to do the work involved in rescuing a dog in the TRUE sense of the word. It’s hard doing rescue work. It requires a place to keep the dog, vet care, house training, people training, and food, exercise, water, love. If Peta thinks shelters are too cruel because the dog would be caged while waiting for a home, then they could set up a system of foster homes for the dogs they rescue—like all the grassroots rescue groups do, the ones that operate on a shoestring budget.

When I was running Dogs Deserve Better and we paid $595,000 for Michael Vick’s 4600 sq. ft. house and 15 acres to build a home for our dogs, Peta accused us of throwing our money away. Building a home for your rescue dogs is throwing your money away? I guess to someone who doesn’t care about giving the dogs the life they deserve, maybe. But not to the dogs, and not to those who care about bringing them happiness.

According to Peta’s own financials, the organization brought in $66,277,867 in 2020. After expenses, a portion of which goes to KILLING ANIMALS, they were sitting on $15,119,510 at the end of the year.

$15,000,000! But They Can’t Build a Facility?

When I left Dogs Deserve Better, I’d raised over $5,000,000 for the chained dogs in thirteen years. I was so proud of that, and that I bought and paid off a home and property for the dogs before I left. Our rescues were getting two walks a day on eight fenced acres, and each and every time I saw them run I wanted to cry. Because WE GAVE THEM THAT GIFT.

Yet that amount was a mere pittance compared to what Peta brings in on an annual basis. The amount they are sitting on today is 3X what I was able to raise in in thirteen years. It’s baffling to me.

You have the money.

You have the staff.

And yet you treat the dogs like they have NO RIGHT TO LIFE.

Let’s Ask THE DOGS, Shall We?

What would Sampson say? It’s obvious. He wants to LIVE.

Let’s play a little game called ASK THE DOGS. We know that they can’t speak outright, but one would have to be off their rocker to imagine that these dogs don’t want to LIVE in a way that treats them with dignity and kindness. That’s the right they deserve…not to die from some ludicrously misguided gaslighting excuse that you’re somehow SAVING them from a horrible existence. You’ve already done saved them. Now give them what they DESERVE, not what your laziness pretends is ok.

Stop. Gaslighting. Us.

The dogs you “rescue,” animal advocates, and even the media you dupe into spouting this insanity deserve better than what we’ve been given. For a nonprofit who brings in SO MUCH MONEY, you have the MORAL OBLIGATION to treat the animals, the public, and everyone who donates to you with the respect we deserve.

The Promise You Make When You Remove a Dog from a Chain

How many times do you think Peta has promised someone giving up a dog that said dog will have a wonderful life? I’d bet thousands. I really don’t care about the lie you tell the families who chain their dogs. What I care about is the promise you make to that dog when you remove him/her from the chain.

I’ve done it a ton of times, and each and every time I’m aware of the promise I’m making them by doing so. I hold their lives, their hopes, their dreams, their futures in my hands. That’s a sacred and priceless trust that I have a moral imperative to take seriously. They need me to act according to my highest ideals in order to give them the future they deserve.

When you Violate that Trust, You Violate your Moral Imperative

I hold Peta in contempt for all these deaths. If you can’t give the dogs the chance they deserve, find someone who can. Don’t play God and Savior and then violate their most sacred right to life.

Peta will Never Change as Long as Newkirk is in Charge

These directives come from the top, and every employee who kills these dogs violates their rights, too. This is no different than those who claim they were “just following orders” in Nazi Germany. Until Newkirk is removed or passes, this will continue. Going up against Peta is like going up against Trump and his ilk. At best they will swat you away like the fly they laughably condemned Obama for. [Really, Peta? The hypocrisy is repulsive.] At worst they will go after you and discredit you for standing up to them.

I can only hope that someday this organization is led by someone with compassion and kindness, who puts their money where their mouth is instead of killing most of what they “rescue.” They have the funds to make a vast difference for chained dogs. They just need the will to do so.

My Apologies to The Dogs and Everyone Like Me Who Knows What They Do and Is Powerless to Stop Them

From the article: “Michael S. Williamson, the Post photographer, has two Pulitzer Prizes. He is professionally impassive. He did not lose his composure when he took photos of the Loma Prieta earthquake in San Francisco, from above, in a plane, with the death and devastation below, but when he is told what is about to happen, he bursts into tears. It’s hard to explain, but with animals, you are overwhelmed by their innocence and vulnerability.”

No, it’s not hard to explain. He knows it’s wrong, but he too is powerless to stop this monster with a reputation for standing uncompromisingly for animal’s rights. Hogwash.

Final tally on deaths? At least four that I can see. From just ONE Article. Mind blowing. They are all “justified” with BS excuses that the gullible buy and cluck their tongues over, wishing it had had a better ending.

BUT IT COULD HAVE. Each rescued dog could have had the gift of TIME and KINDNESS that they deserved.

“Nachminovitch feels that PETA has no choice but to euthanize Monster. He is at least 8 years old and very sick, unpredictably emotionally damaged, big and potentially dangerous. He has a terminal case of heartworm — a test at PETA confirms it. He is unadoptable. Best-case scenario is that after a brief day or two of freedom he’d be put back in a cage, in a shelter, to his terror, and then euthanized anyway.”

“Shortie, the terrified dog living in car parts, was too emotionally shattered to be adopted and was euthanized. Brandy, the boxer who squeezed through a five-inch gap in a fence, was found to be dying of cancer and euthanized, too. Dora, the dog in the carport, was irreversibly psychologically damaged, too high-strung and aggressive for adoption, and euthanized.”

Lame. Merry Christmas, from your Friends at Peta! Now Give Us Money. We Can Keep This Up ALL. YEAR. Long.

Reflections on 56 Years: Oprah Lied about the 50s, the Curse of Empathy, and Why Can’t the Real World be Sanitized like “The Call of the Wild”?

February 24, 2020February 24, 2020 / Tamira Thayne's Untethered / Leave a comment

Gorgeous drawing of my dog, Khronos, by Abbie Withers. He reminds me of Buck in the remake of “The Call of the Wild.”

Tomorrow I will turn 56.

Yesterday, my hubby Joe and I went to see “The Call of the Wild.”

Neither the harking back to a book I’d read as a child and remembered as being emotionally painful, nor the forthcoming years that promise the ongoing pain of aging has seemed very celebratory.

I liked “The Call of the Wild”; in fact, I liked it much more than I’d expected to. And while I couldn’t remember the details of the book—it’s been 46 years since my last reading of it, after all—I had a sneaking suspicion that the movie was a sanitized version. For which I am grateful.

Buck’s first beating in the movie consisted of only one hit; I thought the book was probably much worse. And, true confession, I escaped to the bathroom as the second abuse scene came up, not able to face what the evil man would do to the beautiful dog. A couple renegade sobs escaped my throat as I burst through the theater door into the emotional neutrality of the quiet hallway. As I hurried to the ladies room, I corralled my wayward pain, shoved it back into the recesses, and went about the business of denying the ugly of life once more.

It occurred to me that way too much of my time is spent denying the ugly in an attempt at surviving my days here on Planet Earth.

I see this as the curse of having a heart, the ability to empathize, to understand and in some way feel the pain of others, both human and animal.

Apparently, my foggy memories served me right about the movie’s sanitization, according to this article. And yet I found even the couple abuse scenes, and the (very sparing) dog-fighting scenes, almost more than I could bear. I squeezed Joe’s hand at each attack during the fight between Buck and the pack leader, Spitz, and pondered—for the thousandth time—how anyone could actually choose to participate or watch such a thing as dogfighting.

I was in my late 40’s when I read an article in Oprah talking about how wonderful the 50’s were supposed to be for women. I couldn’t wait! Now THIS was more like it! Ostensibly, when we hit 50, we women would magically stop caring so much about our looks and how the world viewed us, would be free to be ‘ourselves’, and would truly enjoy the rest of our years on the planet.

What bliss awaited me!

Yet tomorrow I’ll be 56—over halfway through the magical decade—and I’m still waiting for this glorious epiphany to hit. Crap. Did I miss the bus, again?

Or, did Oprah lie to me? Maybe the 50’s are just good if you have plenty of money to mute the evils of the world.

Instead, I’m tubby, have decided to embrace my grays even though this will not enhance my appearance, and think it’s a wise idea overall to avoid the mirror.

And depression rides my coattails on the best of days.

Whereas empathy SHOULD be a trait to be celebrated, instead it’s become an anchor weighing me down in a world where cruelty toward animals and humans alike abounds.

Avoiding pain in the quest for emotional survival seems to be my daily modus operandi.

In a world under Trump, cruelty towards our fellow humans and animals is more the point that the consequence of our interactions with others.

I rarely blog anymore, because I can’t offer much in the way of support for those suffering. I can’t help others, when I’m in too much pain. I avoid Facebook, and most social media, most of the time. I find myself more attracted to Twitter, because at least there people are standing up to Trump and his ilk, and I need to feel like not all hope is lost.

It’s ironic that the kindest people on the planet are those who are most able to feel the pain of others: this is, indeed, specifically what makes them kind. It also makes them less able or likely to fight back against evil.

Those who are cruel are able to cage children at our borders, lie with impunity in the hijacking of America, and toss out of office anyone telling the truth with no qualms or twinges of conscience.

I messaged with a friend yesterday about the upcoming election, and we agreed we were afraid we couldn’t emotionally SURVIVE another four years of Trump. How sad is that? That a president causes so much emotional harm to those in the country they don’t know if they can live through it?

bloated-tick

THE TRUTH IS, at this point, I WOULD VOTE FOR A BLOATED TICK OVER TRUMP.

I’m already seeing so much infighting in the Democratic primaries, that I feel hopeless about our ability to focus, to rise above, and to effectively fight this evil.

Why? Why can’t we see that getting rid of Trump, by coming together as a nation, has to be the NUMBER ONE PRIORITY?

As Jennifer Rubin said in this The Washington Post editorial, “What, if anything, can Democrats do in the next week or so to change the trajectory of the race? There is very little chance that they will do what is necessary; that would require selflessness and self-reflection as well as party leadership, none of which is evident in today’s Democratic Party.”

Great. As if I needed more to be depressed about.

If you have a heart and soul; if you care about animals, if you care about people, if you care about our planet, then removing Trump has to be the first and foremost responsibility.

The death of our planet looms…our only chance for survival for us and our children is putting actual adults in charge.

Maybe it’s not all Oprah’s fault that I can’t embrace my 50’s. Still…if she can’t sanitize the world to make me believe it’s a kinder place, she at least shouldn’t make me promises that she can’t keep.

Happy 56 to me.

Lobotomy, anyone?

When There’s a Fox in the Henhouse, aka a Traitor in the White House

July 18, 2018July 18, 2018 / Tamira Thayne's Untethered / Leave a comment

When living with a narcissist, or under a narcissistic president, victims (citizens) often become numb.

Hopeless—at least until it becomes a fight for their lives.

Because the narcissist is so good at gaslighting, that he or she (yes, there are plenty of women narcissists) gathers a gaggle of groupies and easily convinces said groupies to punish and pummel the victims with whatever lies they’ve been fed, whereupon the victim ends up feeling crazy and helpless.

And alone.

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Here in America those who see the so-called president for what he is are far from alone. Yet we are accosted on a daily basis with lies, misdirection, and outright villainy by a government that has now proven itself to be nothing more than a puppet to Russia.

Even though after Helsinki this fact can no longer be dismissed for conjecture, we still have to put up with family and friends who say ridiculous things like “The media is to blame.” Or “Hillary’s emails.” Or “Barack Obama was a socialist dictator.”

None of which make sense OR does a thing to stop the fascist progression of our country.

Maybe those who hide and bury their heads in the sand do so because they feel hopeless and helpless, and, look, I totally get that. I’ve gone to DC to protest three times, made the phone calls, facebook posts and tweets, and signed a bazillion petitions, and yet it’s not nearly enough. I still feel like a slacker and need to do more.

Because after Helsinki, everyone in America who isn’t a white supremacist SHOULD HAVE THEIR EYES WIDE OPEN.

The man TOLD US EXACTLY WHAT HE IS.

The man betrayed America to our enemies. The man BLATANTLY SOLD US DOWN THE RIVER FOR THE WHOLE WORLD TO SEE.

And what I want to know is, WHO ARE WE? WHO ARE YOU?

He showed himself to be the traitor that he is. And if you aren’t, if our elected representatives aren’t, standing as ONE AMERICA to say this treasonous fool must go, then each and every one of you are complicit as well.

Trump took an oath to uphold our constitution, and he has failed in that oath, and must be removed from office. He has proven that he doesn’t hold the best interests of our country over himself repeatedly, but never more clearly has he shown that he puts Russia before us than he did in Helsinki.

My favorite quote from the articles I’ve read is as follows: “The fact is that [Trump]’s behaving like a controlled spy,” he said. “If all signs are that there’s a fox in the chicken coop, then don’t think that there was probably a lightning bolt — there’s probably a fox in the chicken coop.”—Glenn Carle

Did you know that foxes don’t just kill one chicken and leave the rest? Nope. They kill them all.

I spoke to a girl who runs a local farm, where chickens run through the field and are bedded inside two mobile henhouses for protection each night. She told me they’d recently lost about 20 chickens that they couldn’t find the night before, and all 20 had been slain by a fox or foxes, yet not eaten.

These poor chickens were demolished and left where they lay to be discovered the next morning. Apparently foxes go into a murderous frenzy and kill everything—but then only take one to eat and leave the rest behind.

The U.S. is the henhouse.

Trump and Putin are the foxes.

And THEY ARE INSIDE.

Dig your heads out of the sand and stand up. Please. And for God’s sake, vote this November. It’s never been more crucial.

P.S. For those of you who come here for animal issues, consider this: Animals are nothing in Trump’s America. Do you really think those who cage kids at the border give a rat’s ass about protecting a dog on a chain? Come on. Even if your hands are full with rescued and dumped animals, make sure you vote these folks out this year, if you ever want a chance for better lives for the animals.