I’ve been talking about my pets in my posts. About how Daniel killed some of them. About how Daniel left me dead kittens in my freezer to find when I was living alone in the house we had once shared. How he decapitated my tabby cat. He and his mother Sandra knew pets and animals were my vulnerability and how animals are my love.
I’ve wanted to talk about a statistic that I read about that keeps people in situations that they might normally walk away from if they didn’t have pets. Why women stay in these horrific relationships for unknown reasons that others can’t understand. They don’t want to leave behind innocent creatures that they know will die. Helpless animals that don’t deserve to be abused and killed at the hands of the psychopaths that women live with.
Before I do, I’ll relate my own stories about what happened while I was living with Daniel. While I was in my situation, in the beginning, I didn’t realize that it had been Daniel that had murdered two of my parrots and two of my cats. I never would have imagined that he would leave me dead kittens in my freezer. Never would I have thought that he and his mother would donate large sums of money to the local humane shelter and then anonymously call me in as an animal abuser.
The parrots had died under suspicious circumstances and my son who was fifteen then happened to be in my home at the time. The parrots were kept in their cages, along with their play pens in the family room. It was a brightly lit room, with two walls of glass windows full of streaming light. An ideal room for birds. I had three parrots at the time, an african Congo, a mini-macaw, and a white cockatoo. The african Congo and the cockatoo I had raised from babies and were hand-fed by me and purchased long before I knew Daniel, while the mini-macaw I had adopted well before I met Daniel also.
My parrots were people-socialized, talked and interacted with my other pets in my household. Hendrix, my beloved cockatoo, even “fed” his nuts to my dog, Sabbath. Hendrix was quite the squawker, quite the jinxter and had seven locks on his cage for when I wasn’t in the home. Once, when I had gone out, I had come home to find him leading the pack of other pets around the house in a line, in a “Pied Piper fashion”. He had opened his cage again, and the other pets were following him around the house. He was quite the boss of the animals in the house and very loving. I adored him, but for his safety, had to secure him with seven locks to make sure he couldn’t get out of his cage and create havoc when I wasn’t home again.
All of my birds were fed a mix of hand-picked parrot food, nuts in season and fresh fruits and vegetables. They enjoyed baths in my sinks and sunning outside when the weather was warm. They snuggled with me, and with other friends that would visit. They were well socialized little creatures.
On this particular day, my son came running upstairs to me and very quietly said, “Congo and Buddy are dead in their cages.” I asked him where Daniel was and if he had told him. He said Daniel was out on the back deck, which was just outside of the family room’s door, and no, he hadn’t told him. I ran downstairs, and there were two of my parrots lying on the bottom of their cages. And there was Daniel sitting right outside of the family room, at the picnic table, looking in.
I reached into each cage to check their vitals and look for signs of anything. My birds were dead. I couldn’t tell how they died. Their necks weren’t twisted or out-of-place. They were just lying there. This seemed so surreal. Earlier in the day, when I had watered them, they were fine. Nothing was amiss and they were happy as they usually would be. Hendrix appeared to be fine. Hendrix, by the way, as a white sulfur-crested cockatoo was a larger parrot than Buddy and Congo with a wing span of probably four feet. Congo and Buddy, by comparison, were much smaller parrots, and easier to handle.
Daniel finally came into the family room. He acted with concern, at least I thought, at the time. He said he had gone in and out of the house through the family room and hadn’t noticed anything wrong. My son and I couldn’t understand how this had happened. Suddenly, two out of my three healthy parrots were dead. As I said earlier, never did I think Daniel had done anything to hurt them. Now I know better. My son and I have discussed this incident now and we both agree that my parrots died at Daniel’s hands. Parrots need constant care, constant nurture, and a healthy home. They had the best care and environment. I hand-picked their food. I fed them a special diet of vegetables, fruits and special parrot food, along with the types of nuts and seed that each could crack with their beaks. They were sheltered from drafts. Their cages were cleaned regularly. I spent quality time talking with, holding, and caressing each one daily. They had water sprays in my sinks. But I didn’t keep them safe from Daniel. How was I to know? The bastard feigned sadness and sympathy and stood with me as I buried my birds in special boxes. I cried as I wrapped their bodies carefully and placed them in special boxes. Now I know he was feeling nothing.
The next death to happen was Berwyn, an orange tabby cat that was an ornery fellow. Berwyn had a special illness that would shorten his life span by a few years, but he still had many years left. I had adopted him a few years earlier. He was one of those special cats that had a personality that you remember. Berwyn had pressure on his brain, similar to hydrocephalus, and he would push his head into your chest because it felt good to him. That was ok to me, because whatever made him feel better while he was alive, as long as he wasn’t in any pain, was alright. The vet said he could live for years, and he wasn’t in any pain, but he would push his head against you.
In my living room, somehow, Berwyn had climbed into the ceiling. The home was built in 1846, and the ceiling was 11 feet high. Ber had knocked one of the ceiling tiles loose, and these were the old-fashioned ceiling tiles that were about 8 inches in size. He would walk across the wooden rafters and taunt me, as any cat does its owner. Eventually, quite a few tiles were knocked down by Berwyn, but I somehow didn’t care. I knew he was having fun and they were only tiles that could go back up any time. He was a cat that I didn’t know how much longer would be with me. I guess because I knew BerBer was walking on shortened time, I gave him lee-way in doing things I shouldn’t have let him do, like knocking those ceiling tiles down. But the gleam in his eyes, and the swish of his tail when he saw me would make me laugh. Then Berwyn would roll over and jump into my arms and start purring. I figured let him have some happiness and fun before it was his time to go.
One morning, I had awakened and gone into the bathroom. Suddenly, I heard Daniel yell from downstairs. I came around the hallway from upstairs and looked down. There at the bottom of the stairs was Daniel and all he said was, “Berwyn is dead.” At the bottom of the stairs was Berwyn, lying dead on the floor. As I said before, the vet had said Ber could live for a few years. Suddenly, another death had occurred in my home. Daniel was acting strangely.
He said he had gone downstairs and just “found” Berwyn lying there in the living room “dead”. Here was the odd scenario about Berwyn’s death. Daniel was acting erratically and wouldn’t let me look at Berwyn. He said I wouldn’t want to see him this way. I questioned him why. I’ve seen enough death in my time, and said I needed to see him. No matter what I said, Daniel would not let me see Ber. He had wrapped him up in a blanket and said he was going to take care of the burial. So the opportunity to view the body never presented itself. In the back of my mind, somehow, I knew Daniel had killed Berwyn, but I didn’t want to believe it.
I was still disabled from the accident, still a prisoner in this home. And now, I was privy to the murders of my pets. There were still more deaths to come.
Please see the following links for more information on domestic abuse and abused animals:
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