The Story Behind My Fear-Mongering Post About The OP To Target Cats

I was asked by a few of you to “stop fear-mongering,” after this post a short while ago, about the cats now being targeted as super-spreaders for the next trauma and money laundering operation, “H1N1,” or “Bird Flu.”

I changed the headline.

I concede: The post was “fear monger-ish” by my standards.

However, I can explain why I “over-reacted,” and would like to.

This headline and post came out of a pre-existing trauma, which I did not disclose. But I will now.

I have wanted to tell you all this story for a long time.

It was winter of 2022, I was living in Granby, CT.

My cherished cat of 15 years, Jack, had recently died. I was not able to bring myself to euthanize him though he was in grave decline—I let nature take its course. His slow death over many weeks was excruciating, but I had come to detest euthanasia when I saw it creeping in more and more, everywhere, including humans, in Canada and some European countries.

I still had Lewis, my younger cat, who was 9 at the time.

I made a very stupid mistake one day: I slightly overdosed Lewis with animal Ivermectin, for the purpose of parasite removal, in case he had any.

Lewis came into my room and was unable to jump up on the desk. His eyes were like saucers—his pupils dilated.

I immediately drove him to an ER animal hospital in CT, I forget exactly which town. They had me call poison control, report the dose, and his weight, and they gave me a code number.

I had to turn him over, and wait in the parking lot—and sign a form about the payments which was something like $1700 for overnight care, which they said he would need.

They were very aggressive and hostile, refusing to test his blood according to protocol (which I had looked up,) because I had also given him a bit of water with some honey and salt as an electrolyte, to stabilize him. Ivermectin throws off electrolytes. (“Ivermectin is poison” factions will feel vindicated by this story.) For this reason they refused to do the basic electrolyte blood tests, which would have possibly shown us what was going on.

I was filled with dread, to be in such a blue state, and having to admit I’d used Ivermectin on my cat, during peak Covid nastiness—around the time Joe Rogan was under ferocious attack for his pro-Ivermectin comments.

I knew I was in for it.

On intake, they were expressing their anti-ivermectin hostility by telling me Lewis would very possibly not make it. They wanted me to know how serious this was.

All stabilizing measures that I had looked up that would have been normal were refused Lewis, because they were so mad about the electrolytes, as well as the Ivermectin. They knew I was one of “those people.”

I took their bullying without reacting, and just kept asking them to please do what they could.

I’d have to leave him overnight, they said, and if he made it, another 1-2 nights, at $17,000 a night. That sounded odd. I said I needed to see him—needed to see his eyes and to gauge how he was. They said I’d have to wait.

After about an hour, I was called from the parking lot, and taken inside. They brought Lewis into a small room, and a vet tech described their treatment plan. I was watching him—he was not better but not worse either. He was still wobbly, but he came over to me, and interacted, and was not showing signs of extreme poisoning, ie was always on his feet, moving about, not foaming, etc.

When the vet tech was finished describing the treatment plan, she suddenly said, in her chirpy voice:

“Or, you know, we could just put him down.”

I stood up.

“What?”

“We could euthanize him for you.”

“Why would you say that?” I said, looking her straight in the eyes, struggling to remain as calm as possible.

“Well, you said money was an issue for you so…”

“So you want to kill him, instead of waiting to see if he makes it? I don’t like this. At all. I don’t feel comfortable leaving him here with you. Do I have the option to take him home now?”

Blank stare.

“You’d have to ask the head vet about that, at this point, I’m not sure.”

She let me know that more or less, he was in some version of state custody (she didn’t use that term) and no, I could not just take him home. She kept saying they had to determine what was best for Lewis.

“But you think I should let you kill him,” I said. “I can’t understand how that is ‘best for him.’ I can’t understand why you would say such a thing.” I was livid, shocked, and really feeling panicked, like a hostage crisis.

It was one hell of a non-sequitur: “Or, we could just put him down for you.”

We went back and forth, and she let me know that basically, I could not take Lewis home.

Pushing down my anger, I asked when I could come back to see him.

She said 8 pm.

At 8 pm sharp I rang the bell, and this time the head vet came to the door. She didn't want to reassure me, but I extracted from her that Lewis was not worse. During this conversation in the vestibule (I was not allowed to enter) she also went zombie.

“We could just put him down.”

Now I lost it.

With a loud voice I said: “What is the matter with you people?? Do not ever say that again. Do not say it to me, and do not say it in front of him. Do not say it and do not think it. Are we clear? It is utterly out of the question, and I can’t honestly believe we are having this conversation.”

I had to walk a fine line so they didn’t murder Lewis because I got too angry, so I composed myself. I asked when I could come back. She said 8 am.

I left, and fell completely to pieces, crying uncontrollably in my car.

Once home, I slept maybe an hour, was tossing and turning, profoundly anxious, and finally just got up and counted the minutes till I could go back.

I got there around 7:30 am, and at 8 am, they opened.

I knocked on the glass window. Said loudly and firmly: “I’m here to collect my cat, Lewis.” I was white as a ghost and trembling.

The person behind the glass window went somewhere, and in a few minutes came back. Seemed she was a bit reluctant to tell me the joyous news that Lewis was alive and well.

Then she began pushing me to leave him there longer. I asked what the bill was, and she said a number close to $1700.

I used my last and only weapon, and it was the utter truth:

“I have precisely that much and not a dollar more. I can’t pay any more—I do not have it. I need to end this now, and take him home. If you keep him you will not get paid.”

It worked. They brought him out; I paid the bill. As they handed me his carrier, there was one more dart of spite they had for me:

“By the way,” the female vet said, “he’s blind.”

“That’s fine,” I said. “Bye.”

Got him into the backseat and drove off like a bat out of hell.

When we got home, Lewis jumped out of the carrier box and explored the living room (at Doug’s house.) It was being painted, and there were large paint cans here and there, and other obstacles. Lewis moved about confidently, jumping over the cans and moving around pieces of furniture.

Dave, who the painter said: “Dat cat’s blind? Dat cat’s not blind.”

“I know,” I said. “They just said that to punish me.”

I’d researched everything there was to know about overdosing cats on Ivermectin, and I knew transient blindness could be a side effect.

We got into bed a short while later, and Lewis passed out on my chest, slept like a log. He was perfectly fine, and is next to me right now, by the grace of God.

I was extremely traumatized by this experience and I fantasize about flying back to America and having this place shut down. (I don’t remember the name of the place right now, but I will find it and put it in comments.)

Spain, for contrast: One day in August, I had taken Rafa to both a hospital and a vet clinic within the preceding 24 hours, when he had a urinary tract infection as a tiny kitten. Neither one had charged me, so I was trying to call and make an appointment to return, to pay them. I was essentially chasing down two vet clinics in one day, to pay them. They kept saying, “Another day, don’t worry.”

That’s Spain for you. Another kitten I rescued two years ago in Almuñecar, (the famous Manolete—) she got treated at a vet clinic for all her various street kitten ailments, and the vet, whose name was Maria Del Mar, refused to charge me. “You saved this little life. Just pay for the medications” she said, with a kind smile.

The medications were maybe 10-15 Euros.

So this is why I over-reacted: When this happened, I knew, immediately, that it was part of the Covid OP, to get people to euthanize their pets, and I knew it was tied to big money at the vet clinics.

No vet ever made such a leap before, from treatment plan to euthanasia without even trying to wait to see if the cat made it. Unheard of.

It was a script. It was clearly a script.

I still want to sue them and ruin them. I’m still very upset.

“It’s in their agenda,” I kept saying, “to kill our pets so we lose all hope.”

In Petco, they were offering free “vaccines” for dogs and cats; On the walls were huge posters selling people on lizards. Huge.

Not to speak of what they put in the pet food.

At the time, I did some research, and my worst fears were confirmed. Here are some screen shots—the OP began in 2019.

It gets worse:

Now you see why I wrote: “They’re coming for your pets.”

I have changed the headline—it was “fear-mongering,” but I am certain there is big money in this agenda, and that they will escalate now. That still does not excuse traumatizing headlines, but as I said, I can explain why I did that, this time.

Many confused people will euthanize their pets, when it is suggested, from trance states.

Just as many people will euthanize themselves or their loved ones.

In Canada, 15,280 people murdered by MDs, in 2023 alone.

Lewis is my best friend, and he has been for 11 years.

Were micro-chips in animals part of the OP to make sure they know every single animal living as a pet in the United States?

Have we learned yet, to get ahead of these people, to anticipate their next move?

I chose to leave the country.

My final vet visit in the US was another $1800 or so, to get Lewis prepared for travel to Spain, and to get documents. They never sent them on the appointed day.

The vet, an Israeli, warned me that Spain is antisemitic.

“I’ve never noticed that,” I said.

“You’ll see,” he said.

A nation can be judged by its veterinary culture. Spain puts the US to shame—I all but kissed the ground when I got here.

Lewis, tonight, as I wrote this.