A rare few men have ever successfully escaped from the penitentiary, and zero in modern times. As air-tight as the place may seem, it was not designed to keep small critters out. The graveyard shift confronts rabbits and ground squirrels on a daily basis. Many of them hang around the yard during the day, with little fear of any human beings. Ground squirrels are the source of tremendous entertainment for the inmates. I do not see many of them caught, but watching the inmates bait the ice-cream cups can pass the time for yard staff as well.
The critters that got the upper management involved were kittens. I guess a while back a mommy kitty gave birth to a litter in a drainage ditch just outside the fence on the free-side. Shortly after the weaning process, it was not uncommon for the kittens to wander through the fence and into the yard. Cats, like most animals, will travel more frequently to places where they do not have to work hard for sustenance. That is probably why, as a child, my cats always hung out at the neighbor’s house.
Inmates, as a general rule, are not stupid. That is right, they are not. In fact, many a research study has proven that the intelligence quotient (IQ) of the average inmate far exceeds that of the average correctional officer. The inmates that were not part of the dog program (K-9 Pen-Pals) wanted pets, among other things, so they enticed the kittens into their world. On the outside, you might think, “Big deal.” Kittens are not that much different than rabbits and ground squirrels. I am not sure what the reasoning was behind it. Perhaps upper management decided that the kittens would be easier to tame and manage as pets if they allowed it to happen. Perhaps they decided that kittens would cause fights and other confrontations on the yard that were not needed. Perhaps, it was just one more way to take something away from the inmates that was not covered in the ever-growing rule book governing inmate behaviors.
Before management got involved however, some interesting events occurred. Eventually, the kittens would go to almost any inmate on the yard, but they would not let staff come anywhere near them. I would like to tell you that no inmate ever abused a kitten, but that was simply not the case. One of the inmates was caught trying to fuck one of the larger kittens, but apparently things were not working out as intended. The majority of the staff was appalled, while the remainder of us laughed our collective assess off. Many of the inmates reprimanded the individual, claiming that his behavior brought down the upper management to take action.
Humane traps were set at night, and as the kittens were collected, they were removed from the facility. They should have kept the cats. It might have cut down on the inmate sex.
Kindness to cats is never something I have strongly believed in. My parents tell stories to my children about how ornery I was as a child, and it usually leads to a time when I destroyed a cat from a tree with a cinder block. If they knew what really happened to Smokey, they would never repeat the story.
You see, my older brother and some friends used to smoke a lot of marijuana. They would sit around a clear turn-table lid in a circle with a pile of McDonald’s straws, Smokey the cat, trapped underneath the lid. They would then connect straws, usually three in length, and then light up. When they exhaled, they attempted to blow as much smoke as possible under the lid. Smokey would claw the shit out of the shag carpet beneath the lid while this was occurring, but they did not seem to take notice. They would exhale through their straws, which opened under the lid until the cat would disappear in a cloud of reefer smoke. I am not sure the cat minded so much after awhile, but it would remain under the lid until it had ingested all of the smoke. High as a kite, my brother or one of his friends would release the cat, and it would bounce off the walls for awhile.
My parents are not fabricating a complete lie when they claim that the cat’s demise was my fault. I did, in fact, drop a cinder block on the cat’s head. My parents did not know that it was a mercy killing. The stoned cat had wandered out in front of a car, and was too stoned to die. I knew when it recovered from the high, it would be in a great deal of pain. All I could think of was to lure it out in the yard with some cat food, under my perch in the tree. I guess cats get the munchies too.
A normal person, with normal sensibilities would not have such a repulsive reaction toward cats. If you knew how much it bothered me to see them, you might begin to understand. Hopefully, a glimpse of my prepubescent background gives you some insight.
Each morning as I walk out of my adulthood house, young farm cats would take turns getting in my way. It took them an awfully long time to realize that this was a bad idea. I have little regard for humanity, and even less for felinity. It became a contest for me when they got underfoot. To my left was the garage roof, about 12 feet high at the bottom and 15 to the peak. To my right was the cow tank/swimming pool, considerably lower, above ground, but at a depth of three feet. If the offending animal was on my left foot, the roof became the landing zone, to the right, the cow tank. Neither was a pleasant place to land, whether I missed or not.
I’m a pretty good dog, but if you don’t pet me once in awhile, I’m gonna have a hard time staying under the porch.”
-- Ron White
The critters that got the upper management involved were kittens. I guess a while back a mommy kitty gave birth to a litter in a drainage ditch just outside the fence on the free-side. Shortly after the weaning process, it was not uncommon for the kittens to wander through the fence and into the yard. Cats, like most animals, will travel more frequently to places where they do not have to work hard for sustenance. That is probably why, as a child, my cats always hung out at the neighbor’s house.
Inmates, as a general rule, are not stupid. That is right, they are not. In fact, many a research study has proven that the intelligence quotient (IQ) of the average inmate far exceeds that of the average correctional officer. The inmates that were not part of the dog program (K-9 Pen-Pals) wanted pets, among other things, so they enticed the kittens into their world. On the outside, you might think, “Big deal.” Kittens are not that much different than rabbits and ground squirrels. I am not sure what the reasoning was behind it. Perhaps upper management decided that the kittens would be easier to tame and manage as pets if they allowed it to happen. Perhaps they decided that kittens would cause fights and other confrontations on the yard that were not needed. Perhaps, it was just one more way to take something away from the inmates that was not covered in the ever-growing rule book governing inmate behaviors.
Before management got involved however, some interesting events occurred. Eventually, the kittens would go to almost any inmate on the yard, but they would not let staff come anywhere near them. I would like to tell you that no inmate ever abused a kitten, but that was simply not the case. One of the inmates was caught trying to fuck one of the larger kittens, but apparently things were not working out as intended. The majority of the staff was appalled, while the remainder of us laughed our collective assess off. Many of the inmates reprimanded the individual, claiming that his behavior brought down the upper management to take action.
Humane traps were set at night, and as the kittens were collected, they were removed from the facility. They should have kept the cats. It might have cut down on the inmate sex.
Kindness to cats is never something I have strongly believed in. My parents tell stories to my children about how ornery I was as a child, and it usually leads to a time when I destroyed a cat from a tree with a cinder block. If they knew what really happened to Smokey, they would never repeat the story.
You see, my older brother and some friends used to smoke a lot of marijuana. They would sit around a clear turn-table lid in a circle with a pile of McDonald’s straws, Smokey the cat, trapped underneath the lid. They would then connect straws, usually three in length, and then light up. When they exhaled, they attempted to blow as much smoke as possible under the lid. Smokey would claw the shit out of the shag carpet beneath the lid while this was occurring, but they did not seem to take notice. They would exhale through their straws, which opened under the lid until the cat would disappear in a cloud of reefer smoke. I am not sure the cat minded so much after awhile, but it would remain under the lid until it had ingested all of the smoke. High as a kite, my brother or one of his friends would release the cat, and it would bounce off the walls for awhile.
My parents are not fabricating a complete lie when they claim that the cat’s demise was my fault. I did, in fact, drop a cinder block on the cat’s head. My parents did not know that it was a mercy killing. The stoned cat had wandered out in front of a car, and was too stoned to die. I knew when it recovered from the high, it would be in a great deal of pain. All I could think of was to lure it out in the yard with some cat food, under my perch in the tree. I guess cats get the munchies too.
A normal person, with normal sensibilities would not have such a repulsive reaction toward cats. If you knew how much it bothered me to see them, you might begin to understand. Hopefully, a glimpse of my prepubescent background gives you some insight.
Each morning as I walk out of my adulthood house, young farm cats would take turns getting in my way. It took them an awfully long time to realize that this was a bad idea. I have little regard for humanity, and even less for felinity. It became a contest for me when they got underfoot. To my left was the garage roof, about 12 feet high at the bottom and 15 to the peak. To my right was the cow tank/swimming pool, considerably lower, above ground, but at a depth of three feet. If the offending animal was on my left foot, the roof became the landing zone, to the right, the cow tank. Neither was a pleasant place to land, whether I missed or not.
I’m a pretty good dog, but if you don’t pet me once in awhile, I’m gonna have a hard time staying under the porch.”
-- Ron White
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