Past and Claws Effects


Given that 80 percent plus of the U.S. population lives in cities and suburbs, the connection with nature is fading to the detriment of all living creatures.

Rita Mae Brown



Cycle of Abuse: Any Given Christmas

Way back when in my ‘it’s all about me’ phase.  I would never, ever have given a thought to those who suffered familiar abuse.  For that matter, as a pungent New Hampshir-ite, I scoffed at those who wrote of their neglectful childhood.  Those who wrote journals.  Kept notes.  Reflected upon the devious behavior of those deemed ‘adult’ enough to provide protection.


I would in honesty have to say, there had been fear posted along side my cynicism of others and their plight.

Fear in knowing.  Fear in delving too deep into the woods of my own destructive childhood.  As stated before, No One Dare…inquire with any persistence about my mother or father’s backgrounds.

I realize now.  The repression of truth from both parents…had only been another means of abusive control.  With all the violence swirling around.  My brother, my sister or I would on rare occasion ask about our histories.  Usually it was met with…

Why does it matter?

Go ask your father!

It’s none of your business.

Still the doors on South Main street remained forever locked.  The shades pulled down tight.  We (as the children) were not allowed to have friends over without a parent around.  There had been little interaction above and beyond parental duty…when it came to school or social contact.

If the dishwasher had been filled without properly placing dishes inside…A threat of beatings would be aroused.  If my brother (Bud) dare bicker with my father (his stepfather) about privileges…He was met with the slamming of his body against a wall.  If my sister needed consoling over being bullied in school?  She was met with a night alone in her room without supper.

Our house was indeed loud.  Loud with screams and cries.  And, come the next morning, the children would go about their outside business…as though, nothing happened.

After life became life in the Bowley family.  When both parents were released from the State Hospital.  We became a dysfunctional family.  A dysfunctional family…before the word became popular.

There had been times where I would find myself tossed down the basement stairs for allowing one of our dogs to ‘piss’ on a wood pile.

‘Don’t you know that shit stinks up the whole house when you burn it?  Are you as stupid as…you look?’

And, if any of the children turned to our mother for back up?  None would be found.  Janice had been as abusive in her lack of protection and neglectful love…As, Harold, in his verbal and physical assaults.

I suppose my brother get sick and tired of defending her.

My sister turned her neglect into broken bouts of love.

I had turned to addiction and detachment.

For my part, essentially the only child left behind at the age of eleven, I continued on.  Continued to question why my father would come home and assault my mother with a cowardly hit to the back of the head.  Why he would continue to call her a ‘fat, lazy’ woman…because the chicken had not been cooked perfectly.

It had been a chilly Christmas Eve.  Begrudgingly, my parents left me alone.  Left me alone with a box of micro-wav-ableSwedish Meatballs and bad 80’s television.  They had left in the midst of a subzero, snow squall, night…to attend a Blue Cross/Blue Shield employee Christmas party.  Somehow, in her timid ways, my mother had found herself a manager.  Found herself the ‘family’ bread winner.  Found herself suffering in silence…because she made more money than my father.


I remember hearing the door to the Dodge Colt slamming…slamming loudly.  Enough so that it echoed through the swirling winds and the sounds of neighborhood dogs responding to the weather.  It had been in or around ten at night.

The next day would be Christmas.  A day of joy, ten o’clock service at St. John’s Roman Catholic church…and, a day filled with my parents arguing.  Arguing all the way down to Waltham.  Arguing about the doorstop fruitcake my grandmother would hand over.  Arguing about the way my grandfather spoke down…to my father.

We have always had animals.  Ever since I can remember, at least one dog, at least one cat.  I do not recall my father being overtly abusive to any animal.  However, he treated them, as he did the rest of the family, heavy swats to the head, coercive reprimands, loud threats.  No animal from my childhood liked my father.  They, like the rest of us, both hated and feared him.

With our dogs barking at his slamming of the basement door.  A vocal,

‘Get the fuck away!  Fuckin’  stupid dogs!’

Then a whimper or scurry from the dogs, quickly, up the stairs.  They always ran and hid when Harold came home…in a mood.

But where was my mother?  He would not have left her.  Harold dare not leave his wife alone…among friends.  She might say something like…’I’m not happy!’

After what seemed like hours.  My father managed to shut himself in their bedroom.  Once the parent’s door was shut…it was rarely opened.  And, none of us, dare wander into the ‘parent’s bedroom’ alone.  Doing so would require him to trust us.

My mother?  Well, after slipping my shoes on (we were not allowed to wear footwear in the house) I found her passed out in vomit.  Actually, covered in her vomit, passed out next to the car and snow embankment.

She had actually had a fun night!

She had actually let her hair down and got drunk.


by doing so, Harold was not in control.

That Christmas was barren of all the joy and promise…the Bible spoke of.


Radical ’89


As she sat  banging away at the keyboard.  Sitting in front of the forever writing device…always allowed her to think of the ‘days’.  The flashes of time that were many; dangerous and stringy with a writer’s thoughts.  College days!  Four years of higher minds and the banging out of ‘Baby Dyke’  autobiography.

RandomwordbyRuth wasn’t even a zit on liberal’s ass…in those times.
Course, the autobiography would not be entitled, Baby Dyke!  It was to be given the simple listing as…the Cancer part I and the Cancer part II.  But when you are fresh out of a cluttered closet…the two are one in the same.
Twenty some odd years ago, the times they were a changing.  The college had decided that being single sexed…was not a profitable idea.  The student body of 1/4 feminist in training…felt that having a college president who’s morals were filled with corporate ideas…had been a selection poorly made.
Current day, the times were still a changing.  The keyboard had gone from a Royal Fleetwood ’72 to a, still in training, Chromebook  ’14.
The world had grown, immensely, and that had been, a most significant…revolution!
Our ancient times, college grad., was tallying polls, volunteers and/or anything else that moved and voted.
“How different?  How unique to see these persons…these albeit strangers…come together from homes, that were villages apart, and stand for a common cause.”
Children of preteen years, holding hands with both Mom and Dad…while heading out the doors of the staging location.  Inter-racial couples, two women who had married not days before, elderly men and blue collar workers!  All uniquely qualified to stand for a REVOLUTION!
Bernie Sanders had not only been the honoree to this vestige of canvassers.  He had also brought about something that many had never witnessed.
However, Mr. Sanders, stood for something, that a few, had sensed before.
She, the ancient college grad., started her own coo, back at that typewriter. Many years before.  Banging out the lyrics to, I Am Woman!  Preparing to take matters to the next level, if need be, the moment her school choose to go co-ed.
None of that went over well with her parents.  Particularly when a picture of her in torn up jeans…smoking a cigarette, vowing to sit out classes, showed up on the front page of the one and only state wide newspaper.
Today, yesterday and all the pages in between, didn’t really matter in the grander scheme of things.  Change was change was making a difference meant getting off the fence and standing up for things you believed in.
 There had years of volunteering to help combat the A.I.D.S., misconception.  Years spent helping recovering addicts.  Glimpses into times and tribulations of the abuse of animals.  All relative forms of service to the community.
Sitting back, now, I listen to 3 or 4 avid constituents of unconventional political party discussing… radical change.
Friendly arguments, civil humorous spats over the state of the state and the perishing world; the atmosphere is none different than twenty years ago.
 Most likely, other than decor and clothing style…no much has changed from those progressives sitting around a wood-stove.  Liberals that traveled for days to a little shack way north of the Mason Dixon line.  A tiny little cabin that would house the ideals of a hopeful few.  A hopeful organic cluster of people wanting to do away with slavery.
Course, being several years beyond my term at college, the ancient graduate that I am.
I just watch the prophets and the forward thinkers and wonder…
“If we all sat back.  There would be nothing in front of us that would be worth getting radical about.  Nothing should remain the same but change!”


Canine Home Companion: Bad Dog!

Let Me Be the Friend U Expect of Me
Let Me Be the Friend U Expect of Me

Canine Home Companion: Bad Dog

bad dog 1
‘I said, what I mean and, I mean what I said…a dog’s faithful…one hundred percent!’ -RandomwordbyRuth


As I have done for years now, I started today, mindful, meaningful, less judgemental and with a sort of…renewed purpose.

As I have done for years now, I started my morning meditation shuffling my way down a lovely fall leaf lane…destination?  Morrill Pond!

As I have done for years now, I began my inner chant with such words as; serenity, faith, better person and so on.

Alas, I have also acquired a fairly new technique…shouting at the time of my smoke filled lungs

‘What the fuck is that?’

Course, I am typically in the wilderness and do not condone animal abuse.  Yet, I find my inner sanctum dotted with bad thoughts about my dogs!

I cherish these moments as I am a suffering Buddhist.  Suffering?  Yes, indeed, for now matter how I try, my spirituality is the art of progress not perfection.

Therefore, I must impress upon possible canine do-gooders, Ma and Pa’’s adoptees to the four legged beast of my burdern, use with caution when it comes to the ten most disgusting things you will ever have to witness in your whole entire life!

Sure it seems to the innocent bystander;

‘He’s adorable!  I’ve been thinking of adopting a dog at the local shelter.  Do you recommend a particular breed?’

bad dog


‘Are you insane?  Don’t you want kids?  Are you aware that that dog you just made out with…a stranger’s dog by the way, ate a pile of unmentionable in mixed company discarded of unknown origin items off a city street!’

I digress.  If those droppy brown eyes and frothy mugs are what you aiming to take under your wing…

!0 Most Disgusting ,Vomit in your Mouth, bad dog!  Behaviors and/or predisposition

  • Randomly we will be taking a long and luxurious stroll down by the river.  A little class 6 road that has gone ‘unawares’ to many…other than hunters!  Recently, proud as a peacock my dog came bounding out of the deep forest with a side of leftover deer.  Looked to me as though it were perhaps, the small intestine and the large intestine together.  
  • Fortunately for my small family…too much is never enough.  Therefore, my partner convinced me that taking in a semi feral kitten would leave a very large impact on do-gooder status.  Problem is…with kitten comes the occasional ‘bad reaction’ to new found dry food.  Fortunately, for us, that kitten and it’s questionable bottom will remain immaculately clean for the life of the dog.  
  • Along with the above mentioned need for a dog to find the grossest thing in the house…and make it ‘tip the shit scale’ worse…comes the tongue!  I have adopted one dog who was once abused by a man in a hat!  Not sure what man…not sure what kind of hat.  I am sure that she does not give kisses.  She!  Does not scare me.  I have another dog, who was not abused, though I threaten to on occasion, and he will lick you to the point of needing to light a cigarette afterwards and ask

‘Was it good for you?’

Friends 'til the matter which end it is!
Friends ’til the end…no matter which end it is!


Needless to say, that mouth is well traveled and recently performed an in depth examination of my kitten’s bowel tract!

  1.  The pedigree dog?  Course we are not all saints of the ‘not sure where they came from’ animal shelter.  Some prefer the hybrid dog.  Fancy, snipped and tucked in all the right places, etc.  Too bad rich people!  A dog is a dog is a dog.  My mother owns something called a, Smooth Fox Terrier (WTF kind of dog is that) has poison breath.  It is built in.  She comes by it naturally.  Sour as a dirty diaper sitting in a snow bank for 3 months and then thawing for 2 more!
  2.  That shit roll!?  I do not know how many times but there have more than I like to brag about…How many times I’ve bought my bottle of ‘they used this stuff in the gulf oil spill’ Dawn, a ratty towel, plastic shorts, a babushka and my two dogs, down to the local watering myself hole.  Without fail, as we enjoy the beauty of the day, say our thanks to the Goddess and make our way back to the car…one dog will go missing.  And, if one dog goes…the other is sure to follow.  After many threats to un-adopt them and/or ‘you wait ‘til I tell your mother’…a dog than the other, will appear.  Nasty, stained and skid marked by someone else’s droppings.  I will never understand how dogs mark their territory to scares other critters away.  While simutameously doing the dirty with a pile of shit that has sat baking in the sun for forty days and forty nights.  This behavior is done so the dog will be disguised.  That by covering themselves in feces…no one will know, my two stooges had been anywhere near the scene of the crime.  WTF?  First, they want others to know where they are!  Than they don’t!  Talk ‘bout paranoid!
  3.  Okay, I’m going to lay it on the line.  Do not ever adopt a cat and a dog together.  Or, separately, for that matter, if they still happen to live in the same house at the same time.  Never put yourself thru the hassle of ‘the dog is diggin’ for turds again!  Conversation with your partner, lover and/or soon to be gone, friend.  Supposedly, kitty turds are filled with protein and carbs and assorted goodies.  Think twice, don’t be nice, that dog’s mouth smells like shoes from the days before Christ!
  4. Humping?!  Really?  We are lesbians and as such, if anything swings between the legs, it goes directly to the Vet before entering our house.  
  5.  Licking the pecker!  Making nice nice with the doggie vagina!  Stop it, stop it, stop it, just fuckin’ stop it!  With the television up loud, Whitesnake cranked on the MP3 and a construction site next door…All I can hear?

‘SSSzzzz, slurp, slurp, whistle between the teeth, hhmmm, slurp!’

I love my dogs!!!  Don’t get me wrong.  I have even thought of going it alone.  Meditation, spirituality, Zen and Me…out in the woods.  Than I think, ‘the dogs are parts of my Higher Power.  And, it wouldn’t be right to go it alone without props!’

Let Me Be the Friend U Expect of Me
Let Me Be the Friend U Expect of Me

Matilda Mae

Animals…proud sponsors of the ‘it’s all about me’ nation!

She is part moon

she is part sun

Part victim

Part savior

…she is mostly…

my creator.

mattie 2

Could be said that on a fateful day

I had begun the journey called….

knowing enough to get out of my own way

Could have been said on a fateful day

‘what was there to see?’

I needed her more than she needed me.

At the time she had been

part used


part time


Within her soulful eyes..

a mystery of human lies.

A victim of hate using love as a disguise.

That is just how the story goes…

a one trick pony in a dog show.

Now I am part time patience

part time playmate.

Full time victim of the love she creates.

mattie 1