Interview With Corey Mesler

I don’t get out much and still haven’t made it over to Burke’s Books, Memphis’ oldest and best indie bookstore, but I was able to interview the owner recently. Here’s what published author and poet Corey Mesler had to say:

I remember the first time I spoke to you. I called Burke’s Books looking for something and you were so damn nice, I never forgot you. But I don’t recall how we finally became friends. Do you?

I don’t. I’m sure it was because you’re so outgoing and nice. And we must have met online, of course, since the web is my surrogate world for now.

What did you do for work before you bought Burke’s Books?

I have been working in the bookselling business for all of my 32 working years, Burke’s being the 3^rd stop on my See-How-Many-Bookstores-I-Can-Run-Into-the-Ground tour.

I’ve been to your website. Do you blog, as well?

No, because I have no opinions on anything.

Somehow, I doubt that.

Ok, I have this opinion: aluminum foil is the best thing man has ever come up with.

And this one: Hope Davis should be getting the same salary as Julia Roberts.

And this one more: Fitzgerald’s best book is really Tender is the Night and not The Great Gatsby.

Oh, and one more: To Kill a Mockingbird, Confederacy of Dunces and The Beach Boys and James Dean are over-rated. How’s that for controversial?

So many writers seem to come from the wrong side of the tracks. Do you?

I don’t even know where the tracks are, except for the tracks of my tears.

Great song. I love Motown. Which genre of music do you love?

Far and wide. But mostly 60s psych-pop. And, of course, Dylan and the Beatles, who did some fine 60s psych-pop themselves. And then, anytime, anywhere, Miles Davis.

Writers, and bloggers, in particular, tend to form their own clubs. Who’s in your club?

Joan of Arc, Tristan Tzara, Elias Canetti, Richard Brautigan, Humbert Humbert, Karl Kraus, Charlie Chaplin, the Laker Cheerleaders, Oedipus, Rod Serling, Iris Murdoch, Billy Pilgrim, Monty Python, Franz Kafka.

What do you love most about writing?

Oh, golly. That it’s solitary. That it fires my brain like nothing else. That it keeps me from watching Three’s Company reruns. That it stays with me all through the day even when I’m not writing.

Do write on schedule?

Yes, ma’am. It is the only area of my life I am disciplined about. I get up with the birds, sometimes even before the birds, and I have to go out to the trees and shout, “Hey, get outta your nests you slugabeds!” and write every morning, emphasis on the every.

When writing fiction, you don’t use dialogue tags. Explain.

I like the characters to be defined by voice. I like the whole shebang to be driven by nothing but voice. That is, of course, when I am writing my funny little dialogue thingums.

Define “Chapbook.”

Traditionally it is a small collection of prose or poetry, often staple-bound, working on one theme.

Who inspires you? What’s your muse like? What is his or her name?

My muse is an ex-alcoholic from Cincinnati named Lanny. As to who inspires me, the list is as long as the heaven’s roles but here are a few: Joyce, William Carlos Williams, Frank O’Hara, Dylan, Leonard Cohen, my brother, Walker Percy, Camus, Dick Van Dyke, Yeats, Vonnegut, Fellini, my children, Nabokov, The Marx Brothers.

I love the poetry you’ve shared with me. It’s inspired my own work. Share something with me now.

You’re very kind.

No. Just honest.

Phoenix

They’ve piled

fresh lumber

in the yard

of the burned-out

duplex.

Thank you. You read it here first, folks.

You seem like the kind of guy who has seen The Big Chill. You know that scene where Jeff Goldblum goes downstairs to hit on Chloe, and she comes to the door in her underwear, no clue what he’s up to, and when she says good night and closes the door, he turns and smiles? You know how you feel at that moment? That’s how I feel when I read this one you penned:

Watching Syrie Bathe

Only her golden hair

visible above

the edge of the tub.

And when she

descends like Ophelia

the water too becomes

ah, golden.

It slides like butterscotch over my brain. And in this one, I hear the blue wail of a saxophone on some dark and lonely street corner:

Blues for Wendy Ward

After 20 years I find a picture

of you inside a book of art.

Your smile is patient:

you were waiting for what life

would bring you after me.

I love this one because I often get my greatest inspiration in the shower:

Nothing Matters

Nothing matters

yet still

I rise

and step from the tub,

half dry off,

find my glasses

abandoned on the

chair over which

I hung my pants,

scrabble for

pen and paper,

and steady myself

on the towel rack,

to write this down.

And this one:

Writing (to) You

The letter I sent to you

died on the way.

A dead letter.

Later, I wrote another letter.

I didn’t put your

name on the envelope.

Now I sit here in the dark

waiting for someone

to come and explain you to me.

Outside I can hear the

bright new coinage of the children.

The bright new coinage of the children. No one but you would think of it that way. It’s brilliant. The thing I’ve found about writing is that sometimes you have to bare yourself, grit your teeth and write anyway, or there would be no real truth in what we write. You do that don’t you? Sometimes write things that are private because you hope it will strike a chord in the reader?

Yes, when I’m writing I am fearless. In all other areas of life I am chickenshit – hence the agoraphobia – but when I am at the keyboard I am almost conscienceless.

Almost? What line will you not cross?

Knowingly hurting someone, especially someone I know.

What do you think is the root of your agoraphobia? Is it a selfish desire to stay home and write? How long have you had the condition?

I wish it stemmed from a selfish desire to stay home. Staying home is all well and good until a seemingly unseen force says you HAVE to stay home. Then it is a jail sentence. According to my shrink I have been building my agoraphobia my whole life, partly from the things bullies told me about myself when small which I have internalized and now use against myself. I have become my bullies.

That’s too bad. You’re a great guy, but then, if you were able to share more of your physical self with the world, your emotional and mental self might suffer the consequences, and so might your readers. Do you think your condition is at all partly responsible for your talent, or would you have been gifted in spite of it?

I have that fear, that my so-called talent is linked to my insular world, my trapped circumstances, my popcorn machine head. But, when I queried my shrink about this question early on, his wise response was, “You want to write from your best self.” I guess I am still in search of my best self.

You’re writing another novel. How many are published now? Do you outline, or go with the flow?

Two published novels, two more finished. No, no outlines. The most recent novel I did the most pre-planning for, making extensive notes, keeping a long list of the characters and their traits so I didn’t mix them up, even keeping a map of Arkansas in front of me (it’s set in a small fictional Arkansas town). I guess, mostly, I go with the flow, maybe because I have been left out of “the flow” in real life.

Do you have other talents?

I used to amuse at parties with my rendition of “Hello Goodbye” as it might be sung by Bob Dylan. I am a passing good bookseller and a pretty good parent.

Your son Toby is a talented artist. Would you like to give him a plug here? Where can people reading this interview get a peek at his artwork? And why don’t you have him design the logo for your new Burke’s Books tee shirt logo?

Happily. Early on I recognized that Toby would surpass me, talent-wise, before he was a big dog. He is a true artist in that he works from his soul and his soul is a beautiful thing to witness. Toby, who starts at MCA in the fall, is doing mostly oil paintings now and so, I don’t know where to see his work. I haven’t seen enough of it myself. We have a t-shirt logo contest going on right now….I guess he’s not eligible.

I like the picture of you at your book signing. It reminds me of Johnny Depp in Benny & Joon.

I told my daughter you said I looked like Johnny Depp, if only for a moment. She said, man, is she deluded. Well, ok, she doesn’t even know the word deluded but she looked at me askance. I happily attach it here. And, oh, thank you.

LOL. No wonder she said that. Wrong picture. In the one I meant, you were sitting behind the table, and it was a combination of the hat you were wearing and the expression on your face. Oh, well.

Write something here and now that is bound to piss someone off.

I slept with women in college who would normally only sleep with jocks, women who were apparently charmed by my acid tongue.

Who were you in your previous life?

I was myself only stronger.

I don’t think you realize your own strength. Thanks for submitting to this. Is there anything you’d like to add before I tell people where to find your website and they go off and leave me here?

Buy my books! Buy my books at my bookstore! Thank you.

Here’s where, folks:

http://www.coreymesler.com/

http://www.burkesbooks.com/

Sex Kitten

There’s a war of the sexes going on at my house. My kitty, Sneezy, just “became of age.” You know … she’s in season . . . in heat. The poor kid is a horny teen-ager who wants to get laid, and she’s being quite vocal about it - twenty-four hours a day. She runs from window to window, door to door, trying to get outside to take care of her little “needs.” I don't let her go outside because she hasn’t been spayed. I’ll be damned if she’s going to make me drop her babies off at the shelter and stare at me with flat eyes of resentment the rest of her life. No way.

Being as quick as lightening, she has escaped a few times. I have to go out and chase her around and around the bushes, across the porch, away from the street, and crawl under the car, just to have her dart out the other side. She likes that game even better than Hide and Seek the Mousie. Just when I think I can reach and grab her, she sticks her tongue out, springs six feet into the air, and vanishes. It usually takes about half an hour of tempting her with toys and tuna to finally catch her. When I spank her little butt, she puts her legs into overdrive, scoots around the corner, slides down the hall, jumps up on Misty’s bed and pouts for … count ‘em … one, two, three seconds, until she’s off to find new ways to terrorize me.

Poor Catfish can’t even enjoy a decent meal without her sniffing at his butt. He gives her a tired look of disdain. Undeterred, she crawls halfway under him, searching for something to satisfy, then looks up at me as if to tell me he’s defective. She wails even louder and scoots away on her elbows, her butt in the air, flaunting her feminine wiles with an air of superiority. She still has all her parts.

My husband insists I lock her in Misty’s room (farthest from the TV) during the evening, and in the front part of the house at night, but I won’t do it. I remind him of how it feels to be without, how it can feel that way again, and threaten to lock him in our room alone the next time he has needs. This does not set well with him. “Then make her shut up,” he says. “Fine, the next time you come crawling, I’ll tell you to shut up, how’s that?” I shoot back. The expression on his face is one of total fear. Me 2, Husband 0.

This is Sneezy’s first uh … time. Her little hormones are raging and all she understands is that she wants a boyfriend. She doesn’t know why it’s happening, but she’s very clear on what to do about it. I used to know a guy who stuck a pencil up – well, you get the idea. It worked, too, but I just can’t bring myself to accommodate her on that front. Do they make little battery-powered sex kitten toys? Maybe I’ll write a letter to Santa for her.

Princess Sneezy

I went to the animal hospital to see Sneezy tonight. Have I mentioned how vocal she’s become? When she saw me, she yelled, “Mama! Mama!” (okay; "meow! meow!) and hobbled over to the bars of the cage as fast as she could (she has stuff attached to her leg that seems painful). I put my fingers through the bars, and she rubbed and rubbed against them. She was soooooooo happy to see me. She wouldn’t let me stop petting her. After a while, I tried to visit with the poor dogs there who also ate the poisoned food, but Sneezy had a fit and kept calling for me until I came back to her. The vet tech said it did her a world of good, that it was the first time she’d perked up since she’d been there. It was the hardest thing in the world to leave her again. It just about killed both of us. She cried and carried on like I was never coming back for her.

The vet may check her kidneys in the morning. If she’s doing any better, she can come home tomorrow night. If he waits until afternoon to check them, and she’s doing better, she has to wait until the next morning to come home. We didn’t talk about what would happen if she’s not better. If she gets to come home, she’ll have to be on a special diet the rest of her life – dry food. She’s not going to be very happy about that. After all the stuff I’ve read about pet food these past couple days, I’d never give her canned food again anyway – of any brand.

Chasing Tail

At some point before I awaken each day, I must be moving my arms out from under the blanket because what wakes me is Sneezy making biscuits on my bare skin. She always manages to find that one little place that isn’t covered. If I draw the arm back under the covers, she switches to the other arm. Today, as I lay there enduring the torture, I wondered why we call our sheets, our blankets, our bedclothes -- covers? Is it because they cover the bed, or because they cover us? Maybe subconsciously we relate it with undercover, which covers a variety of secret activities like reading with a flashlight, or playing with snakey.

Ideas on the subject of covers were going off faster than paparazzi flashbulbs in my brain, one after another. The timing was right, the play on words so delectable I tasted them. This post would have you ruining keyboards. I got up, let the cats out, made coffee, let the cats in, the husband came home hungry, there was dinner to make, the dishes to clean up, cats to let out, cats to let in, and by the time I sat down to write – poof. It was gone. How freaking annoying.

This happens to me all the time, most often when I’m in the shower, or out in the garden. It happens in places where my brain is engaged in something that doesn’t require concentration, and somewhere, way underneath, there’s a little wiggle, and the wiggle worms its way to the surface and breaks through the concrete. The idea hatches full-blown, and all that’s required of me is to write it down before it wriggles its way back to the netherworld. But of course, there’s no pen handy. I will run in from the garden, my hands covered with soil and manure to jot down the gist of an idea, but I will not run through a chilly house, soaking wet with hair dripping. I have limits. What really ticks me off is when I’m writing gangbusters and my husband comes in to tell me about some dumb thing he’s watching on TV (especially when it’s a commercial), and breaks my concentration. Like now.

Do you remember the last good idea you had, where you were, what you were doing at the time, and what caused it to disappear?

I am particularly annoyed today because it was the best idea I‘ve had in a while. I’m in edit mode, not writing mode. I’m desperately trying to get the chapters in my novel flipped back and forth between past and present, while weeding and pruning with what I’ve learned from Miss Snark in the past few weeks. This has been going on long enough and I want to start querying again before the paranormal trend dies and becomes the ghost of Christmas Past.

I can sit and read someone else’s work, and what needs to be fixed is clear as brand new contacts to me. When it comes to my own, I might just as well be sunk in a mud bath with tea bags over my eyes. I think I am not getting the whole “this is set-up” business, especially when no one will be running through my story with a flaming coiffure.

I feel guilty when I don’t visit everyone else’s blog, or reply to comments, and I must take time to go vote on Miss Snark’s blog, since I participated in the Crapometer this time. I think I owe her at least that much. Before I know it, the clock will strike midnight, and I will have lost another day. I will edit until three, okay, five o’clock, ignoring the e-mails popping up in my box, and the ones already open and shouting for my attention before I crash and burn to sleep the morning away. Then I will somehow manage to allow my bare arms to sneak out from under the covers and rouse to find Sneezy making biscuits on them. I will tumble out of bed, start all over again, and not accomplish a damn thing.

Want to Play Smoke?

Anyone want to play Smoke? If you are new here and unfamiliar with this game, see this post.

One question at a time (especially you, Eric, who always wins), but not one question each. Questions and answers appear at the bottom of this post.

Y'all run over to Corn Dog's and watch her video on Sunny California before you get started here!!!

Aaron took some gorgeous photos after the ice storm in upstate New York. I'm posting my favorites here, but you can see more on his blog.

Do you see the "ghost" face?


Ice-covered fence




Frozen Berries


I love the colors in this one!


Questions and answers to the game will appear here. Other comments will be in the comment section.

I am a deceased European.

AMY: If you were a language, which language would you speak (I mean, be)(heh)?

Smoke: La langue de amour et aventure amoureuse!

MISTY: what era are you?

Smoke: Je vivre ère Le Monde du éclat. I was born around the turn of the 20th Century.

DWIGHT: If you were an alcoholic beverage, shared among good friends gathering by the fireplace on a cold night, which would you be?

Smoke: Louis XIII Cognac. Undoubtedly the world's finest, this exceptional Cognac has always been a favorite in the world of politics, fashion, and art. Rémy Martin Louis XIII uses only grapes from the Grande Champagne region which guarantees its unique, exclusive quality. It is blended from eaux de vie, some more than a century in age, then it is aged in 'tiercons', barrels that are several hundred years old, in a cellar set apart for it alone. Louis XIII has been created by three generations of cellar masters to be, simply, the highest quality Cognac available.

ERIC: If you were a body of water?
Smoke: La Seine River, of course.
LITTLE BIRD BLUE: If you were the pile of a carpet, how would you feel beneath bare toes?

Smoke: I would feel like fur. Nothing compares to the soft fur of a bear, no? Grizzily or polar bear will suffice. They are nice for making love, too, no? Oui. (I think I misread the question. I suppose a better answer is that I'd probably feel trampled on.)
LITTLE BIRD BLUE: If you were a literary subgenre, which would you be?

Smoke: Literary Fiction

LITTLE BIRD BLUE: If you rode a schoolbus, where would you sit (like, w/the bad kids at the back, or the do-gooders up front, or what)?

Smoke: There were no school busses when I was a child. I did without many things, but I think I would have sat up front.

TATTIEHEID: If you were a song?

Smoke: I am Liszt's "Liebestraum," Nocturne No.3
MISTY: If you were a dessert?
Smoke: I have been dessert to a few wealthy men, but I could never eat dessert. Au contraire! The woman's body must be slim, her hips slender. Breasts are gauche and of the pauvre. Clothing looks so much better without them. The body should be free and unencumbered. Away with corsets!

ERIC: If you were a specific part of anatomy....

Smoke: I would never be a specific part of the anatomy. My job is to make each part sing, to have fun, to be elegant, in an understated way.

ERIC: If I was a letter of the alphabet, which letter would I be and why?

Smoke: I'd be a C. I like C's. They have a certain panache. And, as an added bonus, now that I've thought about it, if I were a number, I'd be No. 5.

TATTIEHEID: What do you look for in a lover?

Smoke: Money, and his willingness to give it to me. I couldn't run my business without it, nor live in the style to which I've become accustomed. It's very important in my line of work to exude an aura of luxury and beauty (and to smell exquisite).
TATTIEHEID: It's Coco Chanel. You gave too many clues at the end. :)

Smoke: We have a winner. Very good, Tattieheid!

(Wish I had a prize for you. Sorry. Usually, the winner takes the game to his or her blog, but so far, none of the winners have a blog. So there you have it.)

Coco Chanel Aug 19, 1883 - Jan 10, 1971

"A woman should be two things: classy and fabulous."

I just saw this article about Chanel in the news.

Bessie

As I sat watching the State of the Union Address tonight, and heard Bush call for energy reforms, I realized our nation owes me a debt of gratitude. Would you like to know why? Of course, you would. It’s because gas prices are falling. And the reason gas prices are falling is because we’re using less oil. And do you know why we’re using less oil? It’s because Bessie is laid up under the carport, and I haven’t needed to put any in her for a while. In case you didn’t know, if your Jeep has an oil leak, it’s just an indication that ya still got some.

I wanted a Jeep since I was three years old and my grandpa held me on his lap and let me drive his. He worked the pedals and I got to steer. 

Back about 1989 or so, I lived in Colorado, forty-five “summer” miles (winter miles are longer) from the place where I worked split shifts. My ex worked at the same place, but he worked the graveyard shift. When he got off work, he would come get me, drive back and drop me off, and twelve hours later, would return to pick me up. We only had the one car. One day he fell asleep somewhere he shouldn’t have been, and was six hours late picking me up. When he finally got there, I drove home, and when we arrived, I made him get out. I drove away in his car. That’s right. I drove away and never went back. I sold that car and bought another car, which led to another car, and eventually, to my Bessie.
Jimmy Puckett came to help us get out of the mud, and he got stuck, too.

Bessie turns eighteen this year. She doesn’t have air conditioning because she doesn’t wear a hardtop. She thinks her little bikini top is so much sexier. She’s a teenager; what can I say? I got Bessie in Vail, where summer temperatures average seventy degrees on a summer day. A week later, I moved to Phoenix, where summer temperatures make the deep fryer at Mickey D’s seem like a polar ice cap. I see James Goody coming with my Darwin Award now.

Bessie has had an adventurous life. She still brags about the climb to Holy Cross City, and the one where she high-centered on top of a mountain in a deluge, where she struggled for three days to free herself, only to slide sideways down the mountain, and be stopped by …TREE! Woo hoo! What a ride!



She has 200K on her, so she slacks off about every other month or so. She’s undergone a trainy transplant, a brain transplant, and has received a couple new clutches. She traded in the crappy carburetor that came installed for a shiny new Weber. Just about every part of Bessie has been replaced at least once, except for her engine.
A couple years ago, I spent a thousand dollars for some major surgery she needed. Then something else went wrong, and she laid up in the bed for weeks until I ran out of every bit of food and toilet paper I had in the house and had to rent a car just to go shopping. I changed her fuel filter and fuel pump, but neither were the problem. She had to be carried home piggyback. I got online and researched her symptoms, and listened to every motorhead with a suggestion. Except Johnny. Johnny is one of my oldest friends, and he's a bit of an expert, having worked at Coleman-Taylor Transmissions for a coon's age. But his suggestion was the same one he's been giving me for years. "Get a new car." Shoot, Bessie was only sixteen then. Here it is two years later, and she’s still kicking. Sort of.
I ignored Johnny, as usual, and changed Bessie's parts with the frequency of a teen-age girl dressing for a date, hoping she'd find something she felt beautiful in. We finally found something she liked, and made a short trip to the video store. As we were pulling in the lot, about to park, a small pick-up truck backed out from our left, without looking, and wham! He hit Bessie broadside, right in her driver's door. Of course, I was outraged at the idiot's appalling assault, and jumped out to see how badly she was hurt. Then the nitwit driver got out of his truck and - he seemed like a really nice guy. As I was getting his insurance information, I read "Jeep," and "'89," then I really saw his truck for the first time. A Jeep Comanche, the same age as Bessie. I imagine to her, that's the equivalent of tall, dark, and handsome.
Justin, that was the driver's name, mentioned he worked at a car dealership, so I figured he probably knew a little something about cars. We talked about the new engine he just put in the Comanche, and he knew to the tenth how many miles the old one had. He fixed the break in the flare over Bessie's wheel; it really had only come apart, and snapped easily back into place. The black paint from his bumper turned out to be nothing more than rubber, which pulled off like a band-aid, and the dent on Bessie's cheek was really not much more than a hickey. I think she liked it.

The Comanche was a little worse. He needed a new bumper. I'll bet it wasn’t easy to find, even if the guy did work at a dealership. 89 Comanche's are fairly rare. I thought Bessie was in love, so we decided to settle amicably by forgetting about it. But you know what? He never called her like he said he would, and I think it took something out of her.
She’ll get back on the road again one of these days. If you see an old red Wrangler with a bikini top that sounds like a Harley with a lawnmower chasing it, honk and wave to us.
.
.
.

Is Your Pet on a Lifetime Diet of K/D Now???

Is your pet now on a lifetime diet of k/d? Have you looked to see who manufactures it? Go look right now, and then call your veterinarian and tell him you are outraged that he’s supporting the very company that poisoned our pets!
I don’t want to sound ungrateful for my vet, because he did save Sneezy’s life (so far), but now I feel betrayed, and very, very afraid. The assistant at my vet’s office told me, “But it’s not on the list.” There were other brands not on the original list that are on it now. How do I know the next can I open won’t be just as poisonous as the original food that killed Catfish and sickened Sneezy? How do I know the can Sneezy already ate isn’t tainted? Is it possible that k/d is tainted as well, but there are no reports of it making pets sick or killing them, because they're already sick and no one will attribute it to k/d? At the very least, to prescribe food made by the same company is a huge conflict of interest! We should all ban together and insist our veterinarians pull all Menu Foods from their supplies, and find alternative foods – or only take our pets to vets who will! 

I’m waiting for a call back from my vet now. I want to know what’s special about k/d that it helps my cat’s kidney failure, and then figure out if I can incorporate it into food I cook for her myself. If anyone’s pet is on a different kidney diet – one not made by Menu Foods, please let me know!

Okay - the vet just called and argued with me about it, so I will pay him what I owe him and will be looking for a new vet. If anyone in the Memphis area has suggestions, please get in touch. btw, he said the kidney diet is low protein, so if anyone else plans to cook for their pets, that's what we need to keep in mind.

Update in 2017 - the vet was Horn Lake Animal Hospital. I would NEVER take one of my pets there again! I've tried almost every single vet within ten miles and the best, in my opinion, is Stateline Animal Hospital on Guthrie over by Baptist Desoto Hospital, off Airways.

Menu Foods Menu Foods Menu Foods Menu Foods Menu Foods Menu Foods Menu Foods Menu Foods Menu Foods Menu Foods Menu Foods Menu Foods Menu Foods

Miss Snark Hangs Up Her Stilettos

OUR PETS ARE BEING POISONED

Sneezy is showing the same symptoms as Catfish and now I know why! It's the cat food! Dog food, too. Check to see if your pet has been poisoned!

CLICK HERE!!! AND HERE!!! They've known about this since December! Click here.

I just left Sneezy at the animal hospital where she will undergo dialysis for the next two days - if she survives. If your pets show excessive thirst, or are peeing where they shouldn't, they've probably eaten some of this food. If they aren't showing symptoms, but you know they've eaten the food, DO NOT WAIT to take them to the vet. GO NOW. The sooner they can be treated, the better chance they have of surviving. By the time you see the symptoms, their kidneys are already shutting down. Just like us, they cannot survive without them.

If anyone hears of a class action lawsuit against Menu Foods, I want to join. Please contact me. And if any of you Menu Foods people show up here, look at the post below to see what you've done.

My cat died and the other is fighting for her life Menu Foods Class Action Menu Foods Class Action Menu Foods Class Action Menu Foods Class Action Menu Foods Class Action Menu Foods Class Action

Educate Yourself for the Sake of Your Pet

I hate being the bearer of bad news but the prognosis for your surviving pet isn't good. You are now the caregiver for a very ill patient. You need to educate yourself on what your pet needs from you now. I'm sorry I don't have dogs, so you'll have to scout that information on your own.
Click here to go to the best site I've found about chronic renal failure in cats.

Click here to go to a site that is all the recall help you need in one place.

Click here to go to the support group for all who have lost a pet.

Click here to add your pet to a register identifying geographic clusters of deaths.

BEWARE OF WHAT YOU CHOOSE TO FEED YOUR PET NOW! Hill is manufactured by Menu Foods, and so is the Wellness brand.
Menu Foods recall class action menu foods recall class action menu foods recall class action menu foods recall class action menu foods recall class action

Goodbye Catfish

Catfish

?/?/2001 - 3/14/2007

Rest In Peace

I Love You

! March 16 - it would break y'all's heart if you could see this. I guess Sneezy has decided Catfish should have come home by now. She's out in the yard calling him, wandering around looking everywhere for him, calling and calling.