HOW TO CLEAN FUR COAT. CLEAN FUR COAT
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How To Clean Fur Coat
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- A how-to or a how to is an informal, often short, description of how to accomplish some specific task. A how-to is usually meant to help non-experts, may leave out details that are only important to experts, and may also be greatly simplified from an overall discussion of the topic.
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Tears dropped down onto his lifeless form from the eyes of those who had gathered around Shaq to ease him over to the other side. His black spotted fur, dappled by the afternoon sun, glistened but no longer gave rise and fall to his sedated breathing. His 17 year prison sentence ended today.
We were remembering the proud, fearless leopard and how he had touched all of our lives with his strength to overcome the awful lot he had been dealt. Shaq had been born in a cage. He was bred to be used in a nightclub act by a trainer who made his living from the suffering of many big cats. As long as people would pay to see big cats doing stupid pet tricks he could count on a good living by providing the disposable product of the trade; young, compliant felines.
Cubs live with their mothers for the first few years, so breeders pull the cubs before their eyes open and bottle raise them to be completely dependent and subservient to their human master. By the time the cats are a year old, they are nearly full sized; appearing to be adults, but still mentally kittens. The crowd is wowed by the mastery of the trainer over what they think to be a full-grown and fully intact lion, tiger or leopard. Usually they are declawed, defanged cubs who have been beaten into submission repeatedly behind the scenes.
A well known tiger tamer boasted to me that the way you teach a big cat “who is boss” is to chain them to a wall and beat them with a whip, standing just out of reach. After a while the cat learns that no matter how hard he tries, he cannot retaliate and after a while gives up hope. His spirit dies and he is considered tamed or trained. The training goes on behind locked doors because the public would never support these wild animal acts if they knew the truth.
The trainers all claim that they only use “positive reinforcement” and when in front of the public they do, but the cats are ever reminded of the brutal force that will be used against them if they fail to comply. Sometimes it is in the carrying of a whip, which the trainer will defend as only being a guide, and sometimes it is in the verbal threats using words that only the cats in the ring can hear. It can be as subtle as a look (remember how your mom could do that?) or a gesture that the cat associates with pain.
At Big Cat Rescue we use positive reinforcement or operant conditioning as it is often called as a way to keep the cats’ minds stimulated and to assist us in their care and it works… when the cat wants it to work. This sort of training involves rewarding the cat with a little cube of meat for doing something we need them to do, like come into their feeding area, or show us a paw, or lay down next to the wall of the cage so we can give them their vaccinations or treat minor injuries. We do it because taking care of 100+ cats goes a lot easier if you have to get flea treatments on them and they come when called. It isn’t feasible to chase down a tiger just to put a few drops of Advantage on him. The cats at Big Cat Rescue do it because it is something fun to do and they are bored out of their minds. The agonizing boredom of captivity is the hardest issue for anyone to address when caring for animals who cannot be set free. We never withhold food from their main meals, so the treats are merely the cat’s way of measuring if they got our request right.
It’s helpful, but it isn’t reliable. The cats only respond to this kind of training on their own terms and for those who are being paid to perform for the public there isn’t the option of just turning to the crowd and saying, “Sorry, the cat doesn’t want to jump through the hoop today.”
In Shaquille’s case, people paid to see him jump through the burning hoop in the nightclub show and he was going to jump or die, and he knew it. He knew what would happen if he didn’t and one day, upon reaching adulthood, he proudly decided he wasn’t going to do it any more. It was in the early days of the sanctuary when we would rescue a cat but not require the owner give up their rights to own again. Our policies evolved as we witnessed time and again that breeders, trainers, photo booth operators and exotic pet owners would dump the cats as they grew up in favor of new babies.
The first time I saw Shaquille and the cougar who came with him, I thought that some horrible accident must have happened en route to us. Calling the former owner we learned that the injuries they suffered from had been the result of the beating they had taken at his hand for not performing. He had no remorse and had broken no laws because there are virtually none that protect the big cats. When we complained to USDA we were told that beating big cats to make them perform was considered “standard training methods.”
The cougar had a fungal infection in her brain because it had been exposed from the crashing blows to her head and wasn’t long for this
Kaddish, Part I
Strange now to think of you, gone without corsets & eyes, while I walk on
the sunny pavement of Greenwich Village.
downtown Manhattan, clear winter noon, and I've been up all night, talking,
talking, reading the Kaddish aloud, listening to Ray Charles blues
shout blind on the phonograph
the rhythm the rhythm--and your memory in my head three years after--
And read Adonais' last triumphant stanzas aloud--wept, realizing
how we suffer--
And how Death is that remedy all singers dream of, sing, remember,
prophesy as in the Hebrew Anthem, or the Buddhist Book of An-
swers--and my own imagination of a withered leaf--at dawn--
Dreaming back thru life, Your time--and mine accelerating toward Apoca-
the final moment--the flower burning in the Day--and what comes after,
looking back on the mind itself that saw an American city
a flash away, and the great dream of Me or China, or you and a phantom
Russia, or a crumpled bed that never existed--
like a poem in the dark--escaped back to Oblivion--
No more to say, and nothing to weep for but the Beings in the Dream,
trapped in its disappearance,
sighing, screaming with it, buying and selling pieces of phantom, worship-
ping each other,
worshipping the God included in it all--longing or inevitability?--while it
lasts, a Vision--anything more?
It leaps about me, as I go out and walk the street, look back over my shoulder,
Seventh Avenue, the battlements of window office buildings shoul-
dering each other high, under a cloud, tall as the sky an instant--and
the sky above--an old blue place.
or down the Avenue to the south, to--as I walk toward the Lower East Side
--where you walked 50 years ago, little girl--from Russia, eating the
first poisonous tomatoes of America frightened on the dock
then struggling in the crowds of Orchard Street toward what?--toward
toward candy store, first home-made sodas of the century, hand-churned ice
cream in backroom on musty brownfloor boards--
Toward education marriage nervous breakdown, operation, teaching school,
and learning to be mad, in a dream--what is this life?
Toward the Key in the window--and the great Key lays its head of light
on top of Manhattan, and over the floor, and lays down on the
sidewalk--in a single vast beam, moving, as I walk down First toward
the Yiddish Theater--and the place of poverty
you knew, and I know, but without caring now--Strange to have moved
thru Paterson, and the West, and Europe and here again,
with the cries of Spaniards now in the doorstops doors and dark boys on
the street, firs escapes old as you
--Tho you're not old now, that's left here with me--
Myself, anyhow, maybe as old as the universe--and I guess that dies with
us--enough to cancel all that comes--What came is gone forever
That's good!That leaves it open for no regret--no fear radiators, lacklove,
torture even toothache in the end--
Though while it comes it is a lion that eats the soul--and the lamb, the soul,
in us, alas, offering itself in sacrifice to change's fierce hunger--hair
and teeth--and the roar of bonepain, skull bare, break rib, rot-skin,
Ai! ai!we do worse! We are in a fix!And you're out, Death let you out,
Death had the Mercy, you're done with your century, done with
God, done with the path thru it--Done with yourself at last--Pure
--Back to the Babe dark before your Father, before us all--before the
There, rest.No more suffering for you.I know where you've gone, it's good.
No more flowers in the summer fields of New York, no joy now, no more
fear of Louis,
and no more of his sweetness and glasses, his high school decades, debts,
loves, frightened telephone calls, conception beds, relatives, hands--
No more of sister Elanor,--she gone before you--we kept it secret you
killed her--or she killed herself to bear with you--an arthritic heart
--But Death's killed you both--No matter--
Nor your memory of your mother, 1915 tears in silent movies weeks and
weeks--forgetting, agrieve watching Marie Dressler address human-
ity, Chaplin dance in youth,
or Boris Godunov, Chaliapin's at the Met, halling his voice of a weeping Czar
--by standing room with Elanor & Max--watching also the Capital
ists take seats in Orchestra, white furs, diamonds,
with the YPSL's hitch-hiking thru Pennsylvania, in black baggy gym skirts
pants, photograph of 4 girls holding each other round the waste, and
laughing eye, too coy, virginal solitude of 1920
all girls grown old, or dead now, and that long hair in the grave--lucky to
have husbands later--
You made it--I came too--Eugene my brother before (still grieving now and
will gream on to his last stiff hand, as he goes thru his cancer--or kill
--later perhaps--soon he will think--)
And it's the last moment I remember, which I see them all, thru myself, now
--tho not you
I didn't foresee what you felt--what more hideous gape of bad mouth came
first--to you--and were you prepared?
To go where?In that Dark--that--in that God? a ra
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