Trump Not Only Exposes Himself for What He Is but Also Disgraces the Office of the President in the Process by Feting Cat Killers Theodore Anthony Nugent and Kid Rock at the White House

It Took a Visit from The Nuge to Get a Smile Out of Trump

"This picture says it all...two of the most insincere smiles in history. What a pair of assholes!"
-- David Crosby

The decision by Hillary Rodham "and Gomorrah" Clinton to label half of Donald John Trump's supporters as a "basket of deplorables" may very well have cost her the 2016 presidential election but even so it is becoming harder and harder with each passing day to deny the accuracy of her assessment. (See The New York Times, September 10, 2016, "Hillary Clinton Calls Many Trump Backers 'Deplorables,' and the GOP Pounces.")

A good case in point was the Trumper's breaking bread at the White House on April 19th with cat-killers and disgraced rockers Theodore Anthony Nugent and Kid Rock. Also included in that Who's Who amongst animal killers was former vice-presidential candidate Sarah Louise Plain who gladly will snuff out the life of any one of them for either fun or profit.

"Your one and only Motor City Madman, Whackmaster Strap Assassin One dined with President Donald J. Trump at the White House to make America great again," Nugent wrote afterwards on Facebook according to the April 21st edition of The Star Ledger of Newark. (See "Guess Who Came to Dinner.") "Got that? Glowing all American over the top. We the people. Gory details coming as soon as possible!! Brace!"

At last check he has yet to make good on that promise so it is not known what that these Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse discussed during their four-hour powwow. Nevertheless, there cannot be any doubt that when it comes to gore, Nugent is a specialist.

"Always has been, always will be on the Nugent farm, where I have instructed my family, friends, hunting buddies and casual passerby to blast every cat they see," he wrote in a guest column for his buddies, the Moonies, at The Washington Times on December 3, 2010. (See "Nugent: The Time for Kitty Killing Has Come.") "The answer is so simple it is stupid: kill the feral cats on sight. Because of their breeding, we need to wipe out as many of these vermin as possible. No closed season on feral cats is the solution."

Whereas the National Audubon Society, the American Bird Conservancy, the United States Fish and Wildlife Service (USFWS), and all of Australia and New Zealand wholeheartedly agree with him, that does not alter the salient fact that shooting cats violates every anti-cruelty statute on the books and as such it is illegal in just about all jurisdictions across the country. It accordingly is totally inexcusable that the Michigan Humane Society in Bingham Farms, thirty-five kilometers north of Detroit, has not investigated Nugent and subsequently arrested him.

Furthermore, what he calls his "farm" is actually nothing more than a canned hunting ranch known as Sunrise Acres in Jackson, one-hundred-twenty-five kilometers west of Detroit. Although no details have been made public concerning what actually goes on there, the way that these types of operations usually conduct business is to parade doped-up exotic animals into corrals where they then are shot at point-blank range by trophy hunters. Some of the these operations even allow individuals to kill animals from thousands of miles away simply by clicking the mouses on their computer screens.

In addition to being one of the most morally repugnant forms of animal abuse imaginable, operations such as Sunrise Acres have to get their exotic cats and other animals from somewhere and that raises legal questions under both the Endangered Species Act as well as the Convention on International Trade in Species of Wild Fauna and Flora (CITES). Much more to the point, there is not so much as a speck of actual hunting done at Nugent's ranch; rather, what he is operating is an unlicensed slaughterhouse.

Nugent's anti-social behavior is not confined to killing cats and other animals but rather it extends to physical alterations and slanders directed against animal rights activists. He even has gone so far as to threaten the life of a sitting president.

"If Barack Obama becomes president in November again, I will either be dead or in jail by this time next year," he declared at the National Rifle Association's (NRA) annual convention in St. Louis on April 17, 2012 according to The Huffington Post's edition of that same date. (See "Ted Nugent for Mitt Romney: Rocker Stumps for GOP Candidate at NRA Convention.")

That veiled threat, which constitutes a Class E felony under the United States Code, Title 18, Section 871, earned him a visit from agents of the Secret Service but they ultimately refused to take any action against him. Former United States Senator Jesse Alexander Helms Jr. of North Carolina likewise got away scot-free with doing the same to President Bill Clinton back in the 1990's.

Kid Rock and Nugent Gleefully Pose with a Dead Cougar 

It is the same story all over the country. Right-wing loonies from the boonies with money, such as Nugent, Helms, and Nevada rancher and welfare bum Cliven Bundy, are allowed to get away with almost any crime whereas the Standing Rock Sioux and their supporters are attacked by the authorities with vicious dogs, water cannons, and rubber bullets for protesting the construction of the Dakota Access pipeline.

In Nugent's case, not only was he not prosecuted by the Secret Service but he was rewarded for his criminality by Steve Stockman of Texas' thirty-sixth congressional district with an invitation to attend Obama's State of the Union Address on February 12, 2013. (See The Washington Post, February 13, 2013, "Ted Nugent's Cross-Aisle Schmoozing at the State of the Union.")

His transformation from threatening the life of one president to being rehabilitated to the point of being invited to attend a joint session of Congress and to now being feted by the current occupant of the Oval Office can only be described as unbelievable. Nevertheless, anyone who has studied the link that exists between cruelty to animals and crimes directed against individuals surely must be alarmed by his meteoric ascendancy.

Born as Robert James Ritchie in the northern Detroit suburb of Romeo, one-hundred-seventy-three kilometers east of Jackson, Kid Rock is another archetypal example of the "deplorables" that constitute the hard-core of Trump's political base. Not only was he arrested for a series of alcohol-related misdemeanors in Detroit between 1991 and 1997 but he also was charged with assault on at least three distinct occasions between 2005 and 2007.

Like Nugent, he too is an avid gun collector and hunter. In that respect, he is perhaps best known for having killed a cougar while on a hunting trip with Nugent in January of 2015. (See The Mirror of London, January 21, 2015, "Kid Rock Angers Fans by Posing with a Dead Cougar. Grisly Snap Was Posted after Hunting Trip.")

The horrific crimes and slanders committed against animals by the third member of Trump's Achse des Bösen dining party, Palin, hardly need any reiteration. Nonetheless, in the past she has publicly bragged about gunning down more than forty caribous from helicopters as well as having hunted bears and possibly even wolves.

Consequently, it is not surprising that she fully supports the aerial gunning of wolves by the USFWS and the USDA's Wildlife Services. Every bit as deplorable, she massacres animals in order to churn out snuff films. (See the New York Daily News, December 9, 2010, "Aaron Sorkin: 'Sarah Palin's Alaska' Is a 'Snuff Film' and Ex-Alaska (sic) Governor Is 'Deranged'," the Daily Mail, December 7, 2010, "Sarah Palin Kills a Caribou on Her TV Show (but Misses Target Five Times)," and The DoDo, February 19, 2015, "Seven Bonehead Things Sarah Palin Has Done to Animals.")

Looked down upon as a social and political pariah by most decent folks, Palin is, quite understandably, eternally grateful for being invited out to eat with the Trumper. "A great night at the White House," she is quoted as cooing by The Star Ledger. "Thank you to President Trump for the invite!"

The chow apparently was not bad either. The "dinner was beyond superb," she gushed to The Press of Atlantic City on April 21st. (See "Palin, Ted Nugent, Kid Rock Join Trump at White House.") Thanks to "the outstanding White House staff, chefs, Secret Service, and of course the president for making it such a special evening."

In that light, the irony of having gone from being hunted by the Secret Service to being protected by it surely could not have been lost on Nugent. The only difficult part of the equation for him must have been refraining from splitting his sides laughing.

Palin with One of the Many Caribous That She Has Killed

Even though the highfalutin fare served up at such tony joints as 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue doubtlessly has it appeal for souls as coarse as those that belong to Palin, Nugent, and Rock, generally speaking it is much too heavy and voluminous for sensitive palates. A much simpler fare consisting of rye bread, Kalamata olives, cheese, and yogurt would be far preferable.

It is even entirely conceivable that a bloke might make out just as well at any one of Washington's numerous soup runs. At least the company would be a step up in this world.

The only drama of the evening came when the members of the Achse des Bösen took a much needed break from gouging themselves and feeding their ugly little faces in order to pose mockingly in front of a very old portrait of Rodham "and Gomorrah." Unless she is planning on entering the fray in 2020, their behavior can only be classified as a classic case of vindictiveness coupled with the tasteless beating a dead horse.

Since the sit-down affair was closed to the media, the only details of what transpired have come courtesy of Nugent and Palin. That has not deterred the former's fellow rockers, however, from putting in their two cents' worth.

"This picture says it all...two of the most insincere smiles in history," David Crosby of the legendary 1960's apostles of rock, Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young (CSNY), proclaimed to Rolling Stone on April 21st. (See "Ted Nugent, David Crosby Spar over White House Visit.") "What a pair of assholes!"

That also marked the first time in recent memory that anything other than either a frown or a scowl has been seen on the Trumper's dour map. The only logical conclusion to be drawn for that startling development is that he only lets down his hair when he is surrounded by kindred spirits.

Even though that nothing short of superlative opening salvo pretty much said it all, Crosby was not through just yet. "Nugent is a brainless twit..." he continued to Rolling Stone. "I can outthink him without even trying hard."

True to form, the always combative Nugent took the bait like a rat to cheese. "David Crosby, he's kind of a lost soul, and he's done so much substance abuse throughout his life that his logic meter is gone," he chimed to Rolling Stone. "His reasoning and depth of understanding is pretty much gone, so it doesn't surprise me. I feel quite sad for the guy."

After he had mulled over the matter for a few days, Nugent's pity gave way to his customary preference for confrontation and that is when he challenged Crosby to a public debate. (See The Washington Times, April 25, 2017, "Nugent Throws Down Debate Gauntlet after David Crosby's Trump Rants: 'Anytime, Anywhere'.")

Rock, Palin, and Nugent Mock Rodham

That certainly is a chicken-hearted response from someone as notoriously violent as Nugent. If he were a real man, he would have challenged Crosby to a duel to the death.

The reason that he demurred is that he only has enough guts in order to gun down defenseless cats and other animals. When it comes to facing off against an opponent who is quite capable of nailing his rotten hide to his barn door, Nugent reveals himself to be nothing more than a rank coward and a blowhard.

It was at this juncture that Crosby's bandmate, Graham Nash, decided to enter this rather public pissing match and he did so by floating the possibility of a CSNY reunion tour. "Here's how I feel about it: I believe that the issues that are keeping us apart pale in comparison to the good that we can do if we get out there and start talking about what's happening," he told Variety on April 20th. (See "Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young Could Reunite -- Because They Hate Trump More Than Each Other.") "So I'd be totally up for it even though I'm not talking to David and neither is Neil (Young). But I think we're smart people in the end and I think we realize the good that we can do."

Even so that is not going to be an easy feat to pull off under those circumstances. Plus, the members of the band have issues that go back decades.

David "has been fucking awful. I've been there and saved his fucking ass for forty-five years, and he treated me like shit..." Nash exclaimed only last year. "David has ripped the heart out of Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young."

As far as the fourth horseman of that happy quartet that convened at the White House on April 19th is concerned, very little has been reported by the media concerning his views on cats and other animals. It therefore is assumed, correctly or incorrectly, that he not only does not own any animals but that he fully shares the views and supports the abhorrent behavior of his dinner guests.

Unverified online reports, however, maintain that his two eldest sons, Eric and Donald Jr., are trophy hunters. In particular, during a trip to Zimbabwe they allegedly killed a civet, an elephant, a crocodile, a Kudu, and a waterbuck.

Moreover, his appointees to head the departments of the Interior and Agriculture as well as the Environmental Protection Agency, Ryan Zinke, Sonny Perdue, and Scott Pruitt respectively, are anything but animal lovers. None of the foregoing should be misconstrued, however, as to imply that Obama and the Democrats ever did anything positive for cats and other animals, but that is a topic that will have to wait for another day.

In conclusion, there cannot be any denying that the executive branch of the national government is now firmly in the hands of a criminal gang of moral retards who not only hate cats but do not have any noticeable regard whatsoever for other animals and Mother Earth. By freely choosing to dine with rotters like Nugent, Rock, and Palin, Trump not only has exposed himself for what he is but in the process he has brought down shame upon both the office of the president and the country as well.

Photos: Facebook (Nugent and Trump, Rock and Nugent with a dead cougar, and the Achse des Bösen in front of Rodham's portrait), and the Daily Mail (Palin with a dead caribou).

As Peat Tragically Found Out, Alcohol and Cats Are Such a Bad Mix That Even Working at a Distillery Can Be Deadly

Peat

"The Glenturret Distillery team are heartbroken. He was inquisitive, fearless and a social cat and we will miss him terribly."
-- Lesley Williamson

Alcohol and cats never have been a good mix under any circumstances. For in addition to the litany of utterly despicable crimes that are perpetrated against them by individuals laboring under Dionysus' sway, there are yet still other cretins who intentionally pollute their tiny bodies and minds with a deoch am dorais.

Even the mere acceptance of employment at a distillery in exchange for room and board can be lethal to cats as Peat tragically found out on September 8, 2014 when he was run down and killed by a hit-and-run driver outside the Glenturret Distillery, located three kilometers northwest of Crieff in Perthshire. Found lying beside the road by an unidentified staffer, he was rushed to a local veterinarian where, with distillery manager Neil Cameron looking on, he shortly thereafter either died on his own or was deliberately killed off.

As if that were not horrific enough in its own right, the petit light-brown and white kitten with captivatingly beautiful blue eyes was only six months old and had been on the job for just a little over two months. No one ever was arrested and it is highly unlikely that any of the local authorities even so much as bothered to open a cursory inquiry into the matter.

Ever since its genesis as a an illegal bootlegging operation on the banks of the Turret River way back in 1717, Glenturret has undergone many reincarnations and name changes over the course of the years but resident felines always have been the one constant. Although they were originally recruited as mousers in order to safeguard its grain reserves from rodents, they nowadays have been largely supplanted in that role by professional exterminators.

In their case, however, the Luddites' very real concern about technology eliminating jobs and thus leading to high employment has proven to be unfounded. That is because just as one window of opportunity was closing for them, another one was swinging wide open.

Consequently, cats are in even greater demand than ever these days at the ancient distillery, but they are no longer expected to catch mice. On the contrary, all that is required of them is that they meet, greet, and indulge the whims, such as posing for photographs, of the more than one-hundred-thousand visitors who annually trek to the facility.

In that endeavor, there can be little doubt that Peat was preeminently successful, even if his tenure was destined to have been a brief one. That was so much the case in fact that he already had attracted more than eight-hundred followers on Twitter at the time of his murder.

"The fluffy little bundle has been charming his way into our visitors' hearts this week, has already made himself at home in our new Tasting Bar and is showing signs of settling in nicely," is how that the distillery's Lesley Williamson summed up his immediate impact upon arrival to The Press and Journal of Aberdeen on June 18, 2014. (See "Kitten Takes Up New Distillery Role.")

Peat Was Hardly the Size of a Bottle of Scotch When He Was Killed

Peat was chosen over nine other kittens that had been born on a local farm belonging to Shona Stewart and she had been hoping that his newfound notoriety would motivate members of the public to offer homes to some of those that had been left behind. "We've been so pleased to see Peat settling into his new role at the Famous Grouse Experience (a highfalutin moniker for a tour of the plant and a free shot of scotch) and he seems to have caught the imagination of the local and, indeed, world press," she told the Daily Record of Glasgow on August 26, 2014. (See "Peat the Glenturret Distillery Cat's Quest to Find Homes for His Brothers and Sisters.") "I'm really hoping that we find good homes for his siblings and cousins, some of whom are similar in coloring to Peat, and are just as cute."

That certainly was a noble idea but the criminal motorist had other plans in store for Peat and his death certainly did not make Stewart's task any easier. It also left a big void at the distillery.

"The Glenturret Distillery team are (sic) heartbroken," Williamson told The Press and Journal on September 10, 2014. (See "Peat the Distillery Cat Dies after Being Struck by a Car.") "He was inquisitive, fearless and a social cat and we will miss him terribly."

Ironically, it was precisely those characteristics coupled with the distillery's utterly appalling lack of concern for his personal safety that cost Peat his life. Even more inexcusably, staffers had been forewarned of the dangers that he was flirting with when sometime earlier he had gotten stranded up a tree and had to be rescued. Yet, even that brush with disaster proved to be insufficient in order to persuade them to take better care of him.

Far from being an isolated case, quite a few of the cats and kittens shanghaied into servitude at Glenturret have either died or disappeared without so much as a trace. For instance, Peat's predecessor was a tom named Barley who arrived, courtesy of the charity Cats Protection, in September of 2012 but he likewise lasted only a little over a year on the job before mysteriously disappearing sometime during the winter of 2013-2014.

"We were very sorry to lose Barley, however, the team are (sic) truly delighted to welcome Peat to our Glenturret Distillery family," was all that Williamson had to tell The Press and Journal on that subject back on June 18, 2014.

Earlier in 2005, the booze purveyors brought on board a longhaired, even-tempered tuxedo named Brooke from Cats Protection's Cardyke Center near Glasgow. At that same time, they also adopted a gregarious ginger and white tom named Dylan from Cats Protection's Frofar branch in Angus County.

As is the case with all shelter cats, Brooke and Dylan had their own sad stories. Specifically, she had been a former stray whereas he had wound up on the street after his owner had died.

Brooke and Dylan Did Not Last Long at Glenturret

"We are delighted to finally have not one but two cats in position at the distillery and we are sure the charismatic Dylan and the beautiful Brooke will soon be firm favorites," Carol McLaren of the distillery told Pet Planet on June 30, 2005. (See "Cats Protection Felines Are New Top Cats.") "Dylan has already thrown himself into the spirit of things, clearly keen to make a good impression in his first days on the job and helping our team to extend a very warm welcome to our visitors."

Cats Protection was equally effusive. "...with thousands of cats in our care, we were confident we could find just the right feline for them, and we were thrilled when they decided to adopt two of the three final contenders," the organization's Helen Ralston crowed to Pet Planet. "Dylan and Brooke won't let them down. They are lovely cats, just perfect for the job."

That in itself is an utterly appalling attitude, especially coming as it does from an animal welfare group. The crucial concern in placing cats is not whether they will fulfill the expectations of their new guardians, but rather that the latter faithfully execute their custodial obligations to the former.

Moreover, that is a far cry from the position that Cats Protection's Moray Branch later took toward twenty-nine-year-old Suzi Gallagher of Elgin, two-hundred-eighty kilometers north of Edinburgh, and her adopted cat, Bramble. In her case, the charity improvised a ruse in order to confiscate Bramble because she had violated its edict by allowing the cat out into her garden. (See the Aberdeen Evening Express, July 25, 2013, "Animal Charity Admits 'Error of Judgment' to Reclaim Cat from North-East Family.")

For reasons that never have been publicly explained, neither Brooke nor Dylan lasted very long at Glenturret with the former dying in 2011 and the latter preceding her in death at some undisclosed time before that. The historical record would not be complete, however, without mentioning that the third cat in the mix, Jet Li, was adopted by an employee after having been rejected by the distillery.

Described as a "strikingly handsome chap" he, like Brooke, came from Cats Protection's Cardyke Center, but other than that absolutely nothing is known about him. It nevertheless is safe to conclude that, if against all odds, he should still be alive today that would constitute a rather compelling argument in favor of placing cats in traditional homes as opposed to fobbing them off on bloodsucking capitalists to neglect and exploit to the hilt.

Brooke and Dylan had replaced a cat named Amber who died in 2004 but nothing else is known about her, not even when she first arrived at Glenturret. The exact opposite is the case with her illustrious predecessor, a longhaired tortoiseshell named Towser, who most definitely left her paw prints all over not only the distillery but cat lore as well.

Most notably, during her twenty-four years in residence, which spanned the divide separating 1963 and 1987, she was credited by Guinness World Records with having killed an utterly astounding twenty-eight-thousand, eight-hundred-ninety-nine mice! Her fame was such that during her lifetime she was featured on the long-running BBC children's program, Blue Peter.

Towser Killed Almost Twenty-Nine-Thousand Mice

Even though she has been dead for thirty years, she is far from forgotten. Most notably, she lives on in the form of a bronze statue that is located in the visitors' center of the distillery. A replica of her paw prints also can be found on the labels of the now very rare and difficult to find Fairlie's Light Highland Liqueur.

Perhaps most remarkable of all, her longevity stands in stark contrast to the exceedingly brief tenures of her successors. Although it is by no means certain, it nonetheless could be that she owed her long life to her job description.

C-est-à-dire, as principally a mouser, she very well may have been permanently confined indoors whereas those cats that have followed her have been turned loose to roam the perilous roads surrounding the distillery as soon as they were no longer needed to charm tourists. It additionally is conceivable that during her lifetime Crieff had considerably fewer residents, and by extension motorists, than it currently does with a population of just under seven-thousand souls.

As William Shakespeare pointed out in Act 2, Scene 1 of The Tempest, "what's past is prologue" and that certainly has proven to be the case in regard to those unfortunate felines that have followed in Peat's paw prints. For example in July of 2015, the distillery acquired another pair of kittens, Glen I and Turret, as his replacements.

"Glen is, at eight-weeks-old, very timed and quietly inquisitive while Turret, on the other hand, is a tabby on a mission," the distillery's Stuart Cassells told The Scotsman of Edinburgh on July 30, 2015. (See "Famous Grouse Enlist (sic) Two New Distillery Cats.") "He's a month older than Glen and into absolutely everything from climbing, including your leg, to playing with whatever or whoever (sic) he can find."

The decision to recruit two kittens as opposed to one has been attributed to a love of the species coupled with an acknowledgement of their psychological needs. "The whole team at Glenturret are (sic) thrilled to welcome some new little furry team members and we have decided to home two kittens instead of one so we can have twice the fun," Cassells explained. "There is a lot of evidence to suggest that it is good for a cat's development to be around other cats as they are very social animals. They are also less likely to venture as far, so we have welcomed the cute and very mischievous Glen and Turret."

Leaving aside the fact that both kittens were taken away from their mothers way too soon, it is strongly suspected that Glenturret's true motivation in adopting them was to have at least one cat left should anything happen to the other one. Whether or not there is any truth in that observation, it certainly proved to be prescient in that Glen fell ill almost as soon as he was installed at the distillery and either died on his own or was deliberately killed off during the same month of his arrival.

"The whole team at Glenturret were (sic) so very sad about Glen's passing, but none more so than Turret," Cassells confided to The Spirit Business of London on December 9, 2015. (See "Glenturret Mouser Gets New Furry Friend.") "We knew we had to get him a friend to play with and we searched extensively. Finally we found a kitten around the same age and who was clearly in good health, and both cats were successfully introduced to each other."

The Ill-Fated Glen I and Turret

The result of that search was the hiring of an indomitable kitten who since has been dubbed as Glen II. "I must say, though, that Glen clearly thinks he's the boss and Turret isn't quite up for relinquishing his cozy spot underneath the still quite yet," Cassells continued to The Spirit Business. "Glen particularly likes to be front and center when there's a tour in, and has found a spot on top of a whisky cask where he gets maximum attention. A true showman, and a natural in the role!"

There is not any proven connection, but it is just possible that Turret is feeling somewhat overshadowed and neglected these days by the newcomer and that just might account for why he did a runner in February of this year. The details are rather sketchy but apparently he was AWOL for at least a week or longer before he turned up at Crieff Hydro, nearly three kilometers south of the distillery on the A85.

More than likely that would have been the last that the whisky makers ever saw and heard of him if a staffer at Crieff Hydro had not posted a notice about him on Facebook. As a consequence, someone connected with the distillery just happened to see it and Turret shortly thereafter was returned home. (See the Fife Free Press of Kirkcaldy, February 16, 2017, "Distillery Cat Was Just 'Feline' Like a Holiday.")

The media have reported that the distillery searched for him "in the immediate area," but he quite obviously had wandered considerably farther afield. That petit fait alone calls into question its commitment to him and its other cats because once a search of nearby areas has failed to bear fruit it is imperative that the scope of such an effort be dramatically expanded.

Even under the best of circumstances locating a missing cat is nearly an impossible task; nevertheless, throwing in the towel should not be an option. In such cases, owners must be willing to commit the time and resources that are required in order to look both high and low because a cat could be either hiding inside a wall at home or halfway across the country, especially should it become trapped inside a motor vehicle.

The picture that emerges of Glenturret's guardianship of the innumerable cats that have resided under its roof for the past fifty-four years is a decidedly mixed one. On the positive side of the ledger, it is to be commended for opening up its doors, if not indeed its hearts, to cats and thus saving their lives by adopting. Also as far as it is known, all of its resident felines have received adequate amounts of food, water, heat, shelter and, possibly, even veterinary care.

Most importantly of all, the company's public image has not been sullied by any reports of abuse and that includes the type that saloon crooner Wilbur Willard served up to his cat. "...when Lillian is a little kitten I always put a little scotch in her milk, partly to help make her good and strong, and partly because I am never no hand to drink alone, unless there is nobody with me," he explained in Damon Runyon's famous short-story, "Lillian," which first appeared in the February 1, 1930 edition of Collier's. "Well, at first Lillian does not care so much for this scotch in her milk, but finally she takes a liking to it, and I keep making her toddy stronger until in the end she will lap up a good snort without any milk for a chaser, and yell for more. In fact, I suddenly realize that Lillian becomes a rumpot, just like I am in those days, and simply must have her grog..."

Glen II and Turret in Front of a Statue of Towser

On the negative side of the equation, its abysmal failure to satisfactorily provide for the personal safety of its cats constitutes an unpardonable disgrace. In particular, it treats them as valuable company assets during business hours only to hypocritically turn around and cast them out on the street evenings, nights, weekends, and holidays. Moreover, that assessment does not even begin to take into consideration the quality of care that it provided to the hundreds, if not indeed thousands, of forever nameless and forgotten mousers who slaved away for it during the first two and one-half centuries of its existence.

Its shabby, uncaring treatment of its cats has therefore demonstrated once again that before any meaningful improvements can be made in the welfare of felines everywhere the age-old myth that they are capable of taking care of themselves, especially when pitted against a monster as thoroughly evil as man, must be debunked. (See Cat Defender post of October 9, 2015 entitled "A Lynch Mob Comprised of Dishonest Eggheads from the University of Lincoln Issues Another Scurrilous Broadside Against Cats by Declaring That They Do Not Need Guardians in Order to Safeguard Their Fragile Lives.")

Another bare-faced lie that also desperately needs to be relegated to the dust bin of history is that they are self-sufficient loners; au contraire, nothing could be further from the truth. In fact, they require almost constant attention as well as supervision and that in turn means that they, generally speaking, fare much better in homes where at least one guardian is present at all times.

Unless they are left intact and therefore are on the prowl for a mate, they only roam out of boredom and neglect. Knowledgeable owners therefore know that two of the best means of keeping them contented at home is to interact with them frequently throughout the day and night and to supply them with treats from time to time.

All of that is self-evident to any halfway observant ailurophile and yet both the universities and the capitalist media continue to pretend that they need to be convinced. (See The Washington Post, April 3, 2017, "Shocker: Some Cats Like People More Than Food or Toys.")

The reasons for their intransigence are as old as time itself. "It is difficult to get a man to understand something when his salary depends upon his not understanding it," Upon Sinclair observed in his 1935 book, I, Candidate for Governor: And How I Got Licked and, translated to the intellectual community, that means simply that there is far too much research money available and too many cats to be tortured as guinea pigs for it to ever willingly renounce one of its most cherished and lucrative lies.

In Glenturret's case, the easiest and most humane solution would be for it to have its staffers take Turret and Glen II home with them each evening and to keep them with them on weekends and holidays. That way they would be able to avail themselves of a lion's share of the benefits commonly associated with having a traditional home, such as security, supervision, and constant companionship, while the distillery would still be able to continue to reap a financial bonanza by way of the invaluable contributions that they are making to its bottom line as cute and cuddly public relations props.

As far as Cats Protection is concerned, it once again has demonstrated through its procurement and delivery upon a silver platter of, inter alia, Brooke, Dylan, and Barley to Glenturret that it is far more concerned with sucking up to money than it is ever going to be with looking after the legitimate needs of the cats that are under its care. That, in a nutshell, is the overarching problem with just about all animal rescue groups.

Not surprisingly, a thorough lack of respect for the sanctity of feline life almost always accompanies an abiding love of shekels. (See Cat Defender posts of August 26, 2015 and February 17, 2016 entitled, respectively, "A Myriad of Cruel and Unforgivable Abandonments, a Chinese Puzzle, and Finally the Handing Down and Carrying Out of a Death Sentence Spell the End for Long-Suffering and Peripatetic Tigger" and "Cats Protection Races to Alfie's Side after His Owner Dies and He Winds Up on the Street, Swears It Is going to Help Him, and Then Turns Around and Has Him Whacked.")

Turret's Life Is in Grave Danger 

Finally, there cannot be any denying that alcohol is one of the greatest evils ever invented by man. In fact, David Nutt is on record as classifying it as being far more harmful to society than either heroin or crack cocaine.

"Overall, alcohol is the most harmful drug because it's so widely used," he told the BBC on November 1, 2010. (See "Alcohol 'More Harmful Than Heroin,' Says Professor David Nutt.")
"Crack cocaine is more addictive than alcohol but because alcohol is so widely used there are hundreds of thousands of people who crave alcohol every day, and those people will go to extraordinary lengths to get it."

Whereas the vast majority of cat-haters never have needed any Dutch courage in order to carry out their despicable crimes, it nevertheless is well-documented that some of them have done so while under its influence. (See Cat Defender posts of September 18, 2008, November 24, 2009, August 17, 2009, October 30, 2010, and November 25, 2015 entitled, respectively, "Drunken Brute Beats, Stabs, and Then Hurls Fifi to Her Death Against the Side of a House in Limerick," "Kilo's Killer Walks in a Lark but the Joke Is on the Disgraceful English Judicial System," "America's Insane Love Affair with Criminals Continues as a Drunkard Who Sliced Open Scatt with a Box Cutter Gets off with Time on the Water Wagon," "Drunken Bum Is Foiled in a Macabre Plot to Make a Meal Out of Kittens, Nirvana and Karma, That He Allegedly Ran Down Earlier with His Truck," and "A Cruel Teenage Drunkard and Dope Addict Who Bound a Cat and a Dog with Tape Before Killing Them Is Let Off Easy by a Calgary Court.")

An all-consuming love of the bottle also has been responsible for Animal Control officers neglecting the welfare of the cats and other animals under their supervision. (See Cat Defender post of August 31, 2006 entitled "An Animal Control Officer Goes on a Drunken Binge and Leaves Four Cats and a Dog to Die of Thirst, Hunger, and Heat at a Massachusetts Shelter.")

On Kangaroo Island, Barry Green slaughters cats in droves just so that he can stay sloshed day and night on beer. (See Cat Defender post of April 4, 2017 entitled "A Mass Murderer of Cats, Entrepreneur, Medicine Man, and Artist Are Just a Few of the Many Hats That Are Worn by a "Hands-On Environmentalist" on Kangaroo Island.")

In addition to abusing cats, drunkards also have a long and checkered history of venting their spleens on horses. "I only wish all the drunkards could be put in a lunatic asylum instead of being allowed to run foul of sober people," Anna Sewell wrote in her 1877 classic, Black Beauty. "If there's one devil that I should like to see in the bottomless pit more than another, it's the devil drink."

Despite the enormous harm done to cats, individuals, and society, there simply is not any known means of slaking man's unquenchable thirst for gorilla juice. "It is a pleasure to souls to become moist," the presocratic philosopher Heraclitus acknowledged long ago before astutely adding that "the dry soul is the wisest and the best."

About the only thing positive to have been said about alcohol came courtesy of eighteenth century English lexicographer Samuel Johnson. "There are some sluggish men who are improved by drinking, as there are fruits that are not good until they are rotten," he once opined.

Although it is highly improbable that he could have presaged the startling emergence upon the political scene of the current leaseholder at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington, that particular individual nevertheless is precisely the type of blighter that Johnson had in mind when he uttered those remarks. It accordingly is almost superfluous to point out that such a teetotaling, perennial old sourpuss as him would be well served by an occasional belt of Glenturret's single malt scotch.

Photos: The Scotsman (Peat and Glen I with Turret), the BBC (Peat beside a bottle), Alan Richardson of Pet Planet (Brooke and Dylan), the Daily Record (Towser), The Spirit Business (Glen II and Towser), and the Fife Free Press (Turret by himself).

A Mass Murderer of Cats, Entrepreneur, Medicine Man, and Artist Are Just a Few of the Many Hats That Are Worn by a "Hands-On Environmentalist" on Kangaroo Island

Killing Cats and Selling Their Pelts Keeps Barry Green in Beer Money

"It's art. I give all my cats another life. I hate to waste a skin and they are much appreciated."
-- Barry Green

Sixty-five-year-old bearded and beer-guzzling Barry Green from the tiny village of American River on Kangaroo Island, located fourteen kilometers off the coast of the state of South Australia, may not look like much to the discriminating eye but he is a big man down under. That is so much the case in fact that he is treated as an unqualified national hero by the country's capitalist media, its politicians, and its denizens.

His first claim to fame is that of being a self-anointed, fully-fledged member in good standing of that sanctum sanctorum, the environmental movement. "I'm a hands-on environmentalist," he proudly declared to The Sydney Morning Herald on February 21, 2016. (See "Kangaroo Island's Barry Green Wages War on Feral Cat Threat to Native Birdlife.")

His authority for making such an outlandish claim rests solely upon his having killed as astounding fourteen-hundred cats over the course of the past nineteen years. Quite obviously, not much is required for one to become a big man in a land of morally retarded midgets.

His modus operandi has not been divulged but he apparently lures them into traps baited with commercial cat food and afterwards shoots them in the head. He then methodically weighs and measures each of his victims before entering that data along with their color, sex, and the location of their murders into a ledger. As the result of his meticulous recordkeeping, he recently was able to proudly declare that he had killed exactly thirteen-hundred-ninety-two of them through February of this year.

"It averages out to about two a week but I don't trap as much as I used to," he explained to his avid supporters at The Sydney Morning Herald. "I can't afford to travel and you've got to check the traps every day."

C'est-à-dire, his overpowering lust for feline blood is tempered only by his stinginess in that killing cats not only costs him a pretty penny in petrol to power his jalopy but on top of that there is the added expense of bait, traps, and shells to consider. His self-professed adherence to a governmental edict that traps be checked every day can be safely dismissed as a lie given that neither he nor the high-muck-a-mucks give so much as a hang about how long that a condemned feline is forced to languish in a trap; both parties simply want them dead as quickly as possible and in furtherance of that objective any available means will suffice, no matter either how cruel or barbaric.

The thing that really perturbs him, however, is the government's refusal to share with him any of the A$2 million in bounties that it has placed on the heads of cats living on Kangaroo Island. That constitutes the centerpiece of its full court press to eradicate all of them, including domestics, by 2030.

"The government's throwing big money around to try and solve the problem but none of it is coming my way," he cried a proverbial river to The Advertiser of Adelaide on March 18 of this year. (See "Catman: Lone Kangaroo Island Crusader Gets No State Anti-Feral Cat Bounty Despite Killing Thirteen-Hundred Cats.")

Whereas it is not known how that the authorities in either Canberra or Kingscote, the administrative center of the island, dole out their bounty money, Green certainly would not be engaging in such painstaking recordkeeping if he were not expecting to get his fair share of it somewhere down the line. Besides, there cannot be any doubting whatsoever the resolve of the authorities.

"We have to reach a point where we don't have any cats on this island," mayor Peter Clements declared to the Australian Broadcasting Company (ABC) on October 16, 2016. (See "Feral Cats: Kangaroo Island's Plan to Eradicate All Felines Within Fifteen Years.") "The feral cat is an apex predator. It is ruining our species here on the island and we are totally committed to eliminating all cats."

The island's estimated six-thousand homeless cats plus an unspecified number of domestics are an integral part of the government in Canberra's plans to wipe out more than two-million of them nationwide by a variety of what can only be described as diabolical means. (See Cat Defender post of November 18, 2016 entitled "A Clever Devil at the University of Adelaide Boasts That He Has Discovered the Achilles' Heel of Cats with His Invention of Robotic Grooming Traps as the Thoroughly Evil Australians' All-Out War Against the Species Enters Its Final Stages.")

A similar dispute over pay arose a little more than a year ago when it was revealed that archers Zach "Shaggy" Slattery and Aaron Wilksch were having a field day mowing down cats on Kangaroo. Like Green, they too lamely attempted to pass themselves off as environmentalists and humane killers. (See the Daily Mail, February 24, 2016, "Man Who Shoots Feral Cats with a Bow and Arrow Posts Pictures of Kills Online Gets Death Threats for His 'Animal Cruelty' " and the ABC, February 24, 2016, "Bow Hunter Targeted with Global Hate Campaign for Shooting Feral Cats in Australia.")

Shortly thereafter, Threatened Species Commissioner Gregory Andrews, the driving force behind Australia's war on cats, denied that the bow hunters were on the government's payroll even though other media outlets earlier had claimed that indeed was the case. (See the ABC, March 13, 2016, "Bow Hunting of Feral Cats Is Cruel and 'Not Part of the Strategy,' Threatened Species Commissioner Says" and The Mirror of London, March 7, 2016, "Anonymous Declares War on 'Cat Killer' Who Admits to Slaughtering Moggies with a Bow and Arrow.")

While it is entirely possible that Slattery and Wilksch were killing cats for the sheer pleasure of doing so, that does not seem likely. If they were not on the payroll of the moral degenerate Andrews, they likely were trafficking in the lucrative market that already exists for their flesh and pelts.

In Green's case, after he kills the cats he next skins and tans their hides in a prelude to fashioning them into, inter alia, blankets, curtains, caps, refrigerator magnets, bookmarkers, and holders for telephones, toilet paper, and beer bottles and cans. His wife, Julie, no doubt plays an integral role in the latter part of that process.

Dead Cats Drying on a Laundry Rack

Far from being an isolated case, many of his fellow countrymen, such as Nigel Burgess and Robyn Eades of King Island, located midway between Melbourne and Tasmania, are actively engaged in the same sorry business. (See Cat Defender post of July 14, 2008 entitled "An Australian Park Ranger and a Seamstress Team Up to Go into Business as Cat-Killers and Fur Traffickers.")

The ever obliging Australian media conveniently omit any reference whatsoever to what Green does with the flesh of his victims. Since it would be totally out of character for anyone as niggardly and greedy as him to simply discard it, he very well could be using it in order to bait his traps.

A far more plausible scenario, however, is that he, like his fellow environmentalist and children's author, Kaye Kessing of Alice Springs in the Northern Territory, is consuming what he kills. After all, since he used to work in a slaughterhouse, that would be something that is right up his alley. (See Cat Defender post of September 7, 2007 entitled "Australians Renounce Civilization and Revert to Savages with the Introduction of a Grotesque Plan to Get Rid of Cats by Eating Them.")

Green's cat-killing prowess in turn has transformed American River into a popular tourist attraction that siphons off many of the one-hundred-eighty-thousand visitors who annually travel to Kangaroo Island. Once they arrive, the pièce de résistance is none other than Green's abode, which he appropriately has dubbed as "Feral's (sic) End."

For example, media tycoon, tax cheat, thug, and all-around first-class louse Kerry Francis Bullmore Packer once stopped by sometime before his death in 2005 in order to purchase six of his beer holders. That in itself is not surprising given that birds of a feather tend to flock together but also because most Australians, being the descendants of English jailbirds, never have been quite able to rise above their genetic predisposition toward immorality and criminality.

None of that explains, however, why that individuals who supposedly care about cats are so willing to subsidize Green's wholesale slaughter of them. "People put them (cat blankets) on an armchair and treat them like a normal pet," he averred to The Advertiser.

That is even more so the case now that Hasbro of Pawtucket, Rhode Island, is busily marketing robotic cats that not only meow and purr but also are capable of moving their eyes, ears, paws, and rolling on their stomachs. Priced at $100 apiece, they are popular with individuals, such as those confined to old folks' homes, who either are not allowed to have cats of their own or are incapable of properly caring for them. (See The Philadelphia Inquirer, March 14, 2017, "The Cats Aren't Real, but Comforts to Seniors Are.")

In addition to being a cat killer and a trafficker in their fur, Green also is a medicine man. "I had a lady from Queensland ring me to say her Chinese herbalist recommended cat skins for her rheumatoid arthritis," he proudly admitted to The Advertiser. "It's the static electricity that helps."

Every bit as certain as death and taxes, whenever there are cats to be nakedly abused and exploited the Chinese are sure to be involved in the carnage right up to their slanted eyeballs. For instance, not only are they huge connoisseurs of feline flesh and traffickers in their fur but they routinely exterminate in droves those that are homeless. (See Cat Defender posts of February 8, 2006, March 27, 2008, and March 28, 2008 entitled, respectively, "Stray Cats Are Rounded Up in Shanghai, Butchered, and Sold as Mutton in Restaurants and on the Street," "Tens of Thousands of Cats Are Being Rounded Up and Sent to Death Camps as Beijing Prepares to Host the Summer Olympics," and "Persecuted by Both the Government and Their Fellow Citizens, a Few Dedicated Women Are Attempting to Save China's Cats.")

Mao Tse-tung even went so far as to declare the South China Tiger to be an enemy of the people and as a result it is now believed to be extinct in the wild. Those few that remain are confined to captive-breeding facilities where they are mercilessly robbed of their body parts and fluids in order to make Tiger Bone Wine and an assortment of quack herbal remedies. (See Cat Defender posts of November 2, 2007 entitled "For the First Time in Decades, Rare South China Tiger Is Confirmed to Be Alive in the Wild.")

There is at least one effort currently under way in order to return a few of them to the wild but that project faces many daunting obstacles. (See Cat Defender post of March 11, 2008 entitled "South China Tigers Are Being Bred and Trained at a South African Reserve for an Eventual Return to the Wild.")

Such a development is not even remotely possible, however, for the Tasmanian Tiger (Thylacine) which the dedicated conservationists down under hunted into extinction in the 1930's.

In addition to both big and small cats, the Chinese are pushing the populations of both elephants and rhinoceroses to the brink of extinction because of their lust for ivory. They are doing likewise with the sharks that they relieve of their fins in order to turn them into soup, raccoon dogs which they slaughter in the millions for their valuable fur, and moon bears which they exploit for their fluids. (See Cat Defender post of November 18, 2005 entitled "A Chinese Farmer Gets His Just Deserts as He Is Killed and Eaten by the Moon Bears That He Tortured for Their Bile.")

More recently they have been accused of decimating the population of Africa's donkeys which they, after slaughtering en masse, melt down into aphrodisiacs. (See Deutsche Welle of Bonn, November 7, 2016, "Bad Donkey Business.")

Feral's End Has Become a Popular Tourist Magnet

It thus is fair to surmise that even though the governmental largess may not as of yet have started to pour in, Green is doing rather well financially in his dual roles as both a merchant of death and as a medicine man. That is so much the case in fact that he is planning on expanding his business.

"I'm looking to take on an apprentice but they need to know it's a tough and messy job and not for everyone," he told The Advertiser.

He of course could really clean up financially if he were willing to advertise his services but so far he has relied almost exclusively upon his comrades-in-arms within the capitalist media and word-of-mouth in order to promote his cat-killing racket. "I have hundreds of letters (but) I don't advertise anywhere because of the cat lovers," he conceded to The Sydney Morning Herald.

Even the prospect of additional criticism is not sufficient in order to even tempt him to mend his evil ways and to find some legitimate means of coming up with his beer money. "I can already see lots of hate mail coming again," he forecasted to The Advertiser.

In spite of all the do-re-mi that Green is making, the inveterate liars at The Advertiser would have the outside world to believe that he is a near penniless wildlife advocate whose cat-killing spree has "cost him thousands over twenty years" and that he "only recoups a few dollars selling macabre souvenirs of his trophies." A far more accurate portrait of him would be that of a ruthless and cold-blooded killer motivated solely by greed and an unquenchable thirst for feline blood who is operating under the guise of an environmentalist with a halo in order to mask his despicable crimes.

The reason that Green has been unable to reap the financial bonanza that he so dearly covets is that killing cats has become so banal in Australia that it scarcely any longer even raises so much as an eyebrow. The same is true for the tens of millions of cane toads, red foxes, rabbits, rats, carp, camels, horses, donkeys, pigs, dingoes, and kangaroos that his fellow citizens are so cruelly and senselessly extirpating. (See Agence France Presse, September 25, 2005, "Millions of Animals Face Death Sentence in Australia.")

In order to truly make a mint off of the slaughter of defenseless animals it is first of all necessary that such outrageous crimes be capable of sparking fierce opposition. Australians however are so totally bereft of any sense of right and wrong that they are ready, willing, and able to sanction the commission of almost any crime, no matter either how great or heinous.

If, on the other hand, Green were to reside in a society that paid at least lip service to both morality and the anti-cruelty statutes he could be assured of at least being arrested. Once he therefore had become a cause célèbre, the big bucks and the job opportunities would begin to roll in with the rapidity of the IRT into Grand Central Terminal.

For example, James Munn Stevenson was an obscure amateur ornithologist who got his perverted kicks by slipping around on the sly and gunning down hundreds of cats with his trusty rifle. That undoubtedly provided him with immense personal pleasure but both fame and fortune continued to elude him.

He got careless one day, however, and as a result he was caught flagrante delicto and arrested. That faux pas led to a few anxious moments for him but in the end he ultimately was acquitted by a jury and afterwards not only landed a prestigious job teaching at a nearby college but also became a hero to ornithologists and wildlife biologists everywhere. (See Cat Defender posts of November 22, 2006, May 1, 2007, November 20, 2007, December 8, 2007, and August 7, 2008 entitled, respectively, "Evil Galveston Bird Lover Is Finally Arrested After Having Gunned Down Hundreds of Cats," "The Houston Chronicle Launches a Propaganda Offensive on Behalf of Serial Cat Killer Jim Stevenson," "Bird Lovers All Over the World Rejoice as Serial Killer James M. Stevenson Is Rewarded by a Galveston Court for Gunning Down Hundreds of Cats," "All the Lies That Fit: Scheming New York Times Hires a Bird Lover to Render His 'Unbiased' Support for James M. Stevenson," and "Crime Pays! Having Made Fools Out of Galveston Prosecutors, Serial Cat Killer James Munn Stevenson Is Now a Hero and Laughing All the Way to the Bank.")

Then there is the unforgettable case of Robert Fawcett, the general manager of Howling Dog Tours of Whistler in British Columbia (BC). During the 2010 Winter Olympics in nearby Vancouver he was raking in upwards of £200 an hour by offering dog sled rides to the attendees.

Once the games ended, however, so did the flow of the moola and being way too cheap in order to feed and house his Siberian Huskies, he shot and slit the throats of more than one-hundred of them between April 21st and April 23rd. Afterwards, he buried their bloody corpses in a mass grave.

His wholesale atrocities did not make the light of day until late January of the following year and even then it was only because he had applied for and received a disability pension. In order to get his itchy palms on that governmental freebie, he not only had remorselessly confessed to killing the dogs but also claimed that doing so had left him suffering from a post traumatic stress disorder. (See the Daily Mail, February 1, 2011, "Pack of One-Hundred Huskies Shot and Knifed to Death Before Being Tossed in a Mass Grave by Tour Operator Trying to Save Money," the Calgary Herald, February 1, 2011, "Canmore Firms Shocks by Slaughter of One-Hundred Sled Dogs in Whistler, British Columbia," the Calgary Sun, February 2, 2011, "SPCA Drawn into Husky Controversy," the Daily Mail, May 3, 2011, "War Games Experts Exhume Bodies of One-Hundred Sled Dogs Killed by Tour Operator in Post Winter Olympics Massacre," and Macleans, October 27, 2011, "Whistler's Sled Dog Massacre.")

Barry Green's So-Called Masterpiece, "Curiosity."

Once his case was finally heard in North Vancouver Provincial Court on November 22, 2012, numbskull judge Steven Merrick let this monster off with a minuscule fine of C$1,725 which he, sans doute, paid for with the pile that he already was getting from the government. Quite understandably, that utterly insane verdict left Marcie Moriarty of the BC SPCA flabbergasted.

"To say we are shocked by this sentence for these gruesome killings is an understatement," she told The Globe and Mail of Toronto on that same date. (See "Fawcett Spared Jail Time in Sentencing Related to Sled Dog Killings.")

No additional news articles have appeared online concerning him but more than likely he is still living high on the welfare hog and in fact he may never have to turn so much as a hand ever again at any type of gainful employment. Things are different in Australia where absolutely no one cares how many cats that individuals like Green kill but that is not any reason for him to be pissed off at the world and crying in his beer when there are so many ways, other than governmental, that he could be cashing in on his crimes.

For instance, he could ask his champions at The Advertiser, The Sydney Morning Herald, and the ABC to add him to their anti-cat reporting teams. Plus, just about all of Australia's ultra-ailurophobic universities would dearly love to have him on staff in order to instruct their acolytes in the proper techniques of killing and skinning cats. Already brainwashed to the point of being totally unable to differentiate fact from fiction in a post-truth world, they doubtlessly would eat up his warped morality with a pitch fork.

A tome and a world tour in order to promote it would be yet still another way for him to pocket a few simoleons. Why, in the United States alone members of the National Audubon Society, the American Bird Conservancy, the Smithsonian Institution, and the United States Fish and Wildlife Service, just to name a few, would jump out of their silk drawers for the rare and distinct pleasure of getting down on all fours like a dog and licking the blood, splattered brain tissues, and cat hairs off of his boots.

Although every bit as cheap and greedy as him, they just might be so overcome with gratitude as to toss some loose change in his direction. There might even be enough of it for him to purchase another six-pack.

If all other money-making schemes should fail to bear fruit, he could always organize a one-man exhibit featuring none other than himself. He might even want to call it: "Eureka! Neanderthal Man's Long-Lost Australian Bastard Brother."

While he is weighing his options, Green has another racket up his dirty sleeves. That is to say, he has come to consider himself to be somewhat of an artist.

In particular, he has created the housing for a clock, a curtain, and a suit out of the fur that he has stolen from his victims. His masterpiece, however, is a meter-wide collage entitled "Curiosity" that is comprised entirely of the severed heads of cats with bird feathers stuffed into their mouths.

Although the intent of this purported objet d'art is to insinuate that the cats killed the birds that could not possibly have been the case in that Green gets all of the cats that he kills by trapping them and no cat is about to venture into a cage with food already in its mouth. That petit fait in turn strongly suggests that they were killed, not by the cats, but rather by this self-professed "hands-on environmentalist."

Entitling the collage "Curiosity" also reveals once again the utter contempt that all Australians harbor in their black and corroded souls for cats. They also manufacture and market sausages laced with paraaminopropiophenone (PAPP) under that brand name which they use in order to hideously poison cats on Kangaroo as well as throughout the country. (See The Sydney Morning Herald, July 1, 2014, "'Curiosity': the Cat-Killing Bait to Protect Native Species.")

That same marked disdain for the species also is evident for all to see in the derogatory names that Green has attached to some of his pelts, such as "Longshot," "Splat," and "Up Close and Personal." He, however, has purloined a far more loftier name for his despicable crimes.

"It's art," he exclaimed to The Advertiser with a devilish chuckle. "I give all my cats another life. I hate to waste a skin and they are much appreciated."

Even in death his cats are thus able to retain some small measure of their former inestimable value and that is a good deal more than ever can be said of Green and his fellow countrymen. Not only are they patently unfit to be allowed to go on breathing for so much as another minute but even their remains would not make passable fertilizer.

Photos: Dylan Coker of The Advertiser (Green) and Emma Byrnes of The Sydney Morning Herald (dead cats, Feral's End, and "Curiosity").