Category Archives: Grandma

Canis Lupus Peripheres – A General Overview

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Mother” redirects here. For other uses of “mother,” see Mother

Image, “Dark Breath,” a project by Linda Caracciolo Borra

The peripheral wolf (Canis lupus peripheres) is a canid native to the seat and remote suburbs of the Pittsburgh metropolitan area, Florida, and New Orleans. It is the smallest member of its family, with males averaging 92–113 kg (205–250 lb), and females 36–38.5 kg (79–85 lb). It is similar in general appearance and proportions to Canis lupus campestris, or Steppe Wolf, but has a smaller head, narrower chest, shorter legs, straighter tail, and human hands in place of paws. Its winter fur is long and bushy, and predominantly a freckled brunette in color, although nearly pure white, red, or brown to black also occur.

Within the genus CanisHomo, the peripheral wolf represents a more specialized and similarly non-progressive form as its smaller ancestors (the call-girl and the enabler), as demonstrated by its morphological adaptations to hunting itself, its more manic nature, and its episodic mixed-affective expressive behavior. It is a social animal, travelling in dysfunctional families consisting of an abusive pair, accompanied by the pair’s offspring. The peripheral wolf is typically an auto-predator throughout its range, with only itself[1][2][3] posing a serious threat to it. It feeds primarily on well whiskeys, cocaine, lithium, caffeine and nicotine though it also eats halušky, prepackaged microwaveable meals, and garbage.

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Image from The White Deers

The peripheral wolf is one of the world’s least known and poorly researched animals, with probably less compassion and empathy given to it than any other wildlife species. It has a selective history of association with humans, rarely having sensitive or serious attention paid to it and hunted in most self-reflective situations due to its bipolar and depression inducing deliberate self-harm behaviors, while paradoxically being respected by itself during moments of idiopathic lucidity. Although the fear of the peripheral wolf is prevalent in, primarily, her offspring during adolescence, the majority of recorded attacks on her young have been attributed to alcohol induced aggression, the intergenerational cycle of violence and/or borderline personality disorder induced externalized aggression.

Approximately 62% of peripheral wolves have attacked people, and this is not unusual due to the limited availability of Therapy Wolf International resources. Furthermore peripheral wolves are relatively few and, while they do live amongst a society, have learned to trust themselves and others utilizing the few available resources when they are accessible. Hunting and trapping has reduced the species’ range to only vestige memories of its region, though this relatively widespread range has left an increasingly positive legacy which means that the species is not threatened at a visceral or emotional level for those who maintain its existence. Due to the suicide of the peripheral wolf, however, its physical form is no longer verifiable and is therefore classified by the IUCN as Extinct.


The Four Children

Shirley Cavanaugh.


The Call Girl and the Cop.

The Call Girl…

And the brain tumor.

Shirley had a validated four children; Forest, Ruth, Jim, Judy.

Forest was an early death, age 8, scarlet fever or similar early death illness, and is buried in a cemetery in Florida.

I’m 13, my family is visiting his grave. I don’t feel anything, no one expects me to. My mother is crying, my father is supporting her, my sister and I waiting by the car. A family vacation to visit my mother’s side of the family. The side of the family that spilled the crazy in the deep end of the gene pool. There is a wedding for someone, we visit Disney World, we visit my dead uncle’s grave. My mother’s brother.

I’m 15 years old. Jim is a name I’ve never heard, a name my mother has never heard. They’d spent they’re whole lives searching for each other for Jim to show up at our house in Monroeville, Pennsylvania. I look out onto the lawn. It’s my mother. Her twin.


I am at least 4 different ages and Aunt Judy, I wish I could have been closer too as I grew. All contact information on my uncle Jim, my aunt Judy– lost.

The Call Girl and The Brain Tumor.

That second youngest child wailing in a dehydrating meow. Soiling in a soiled crib. The wooden bars, the pillow, the teddy bear, a baby; a diorama of neglect.

By the time my mother was found she was in poor health; in baby terms, that’s worse than poor. They found the name of her mother from the neighbors who found her in that crib…

Shirley Cavanaugh…


(My ten year ago self would, now, mutter beneath his abused breath; everybody leaves; attachment is meaningless.

But this isn’t true is it? In this journey, this pathway to understanding therapy and self-help as an adult one of the most important lessons I learned came from reading Deepak Chopra literature…

(I will often use the term, “esemplastic” throughout this blog to describe the cathedral of therapeutic intellect that I have devised; familiarize yourself with the term and concept. And also realize that everything is connected. All of what you have learned and value in literature, mind, heart, emotion, cognition &c. are all just houses you drive to, restaurants you eat in, bars you drink at, friends you laugh with- this is esemplasticity (if that is an actual word, I’m uncertain) at it’s finest. Nothing is separate. And everything influences everything else. See also: the Noosphere. See also: Limbic Resonance. See also: the Collective Consciousness. See also: I am, at heart, a skeptic and understand much of what I have faith in is pseudoscience. Useful ideas do not require scientific validation for me to utilize them.)

…from Deepak Chopra I learned the Law of Detachment which states that,

“in detachment lies the wisdom of uncertainty… In the wisdom of uncertainty lies the freedom from our past, from the known, which is the prison of past conditioning. And in our willingness to step into the unknown, the field of all possibilites, we surrender ourselves to the creative mind that orchestrates the dance of the universe.”

/tangent )

Shirley was gone. And Ruth was given to the next, available, of kin– Arthur and Elsie Horensky; the people that I would grow to know as my grandparents, that my mother grew to know as her parents.

It is July 20th, 1969

Neil Armstrong and Edwin Aldrin are stepping out of the lunar module Eagle, My mother and her parents are sat flat, anticipating with the rest of the world in front of a black and white TV set.

Ruth is sixteen.

Sixteen years old,” her father coughs through the smoke of a Doral Doral cigarette.

The thing about some adoptions is – if you keep it close and in the family – no one has to know about it. That old expression – How do you know who your real daddy is? Because your momma told you so – that’s this; just in reverse. Who do you know who your real mother is?

Because your father is about to tell you, “now’s as good a time as (cough) any.

My mother’s mother was Shirley Cavanaugh, my mother’s great aunt’s name was Elsie Horensky– Grandma.

You’ve been gone for years now, I still miss you. I’m glad that we had lunch before you passed away, that I had the chance to tell you that having you as a grandmother is something I wouldn’t have survived without. You are wonderful to me.

Elsie and Arthur played the role; The Parent Game.

The thing is,” he muttered…

The Call Girl and the Brain Tumor…

You know that woman? Shirley? Down the street some? The women in the hospice with the brain tumor now? That’s your real mother, and Judy? Your friend down at Winkey’s Diner? That’s your sister. (cough)

Eight months old and my mother lay emaciated and dehydrated in a forgotten crib in some abandoned room; the perfect recipe for a feral child – this, is how Ruthy Cavanaugh became Ruth Elza Horensky.

What did Shirley go through? What did her mother go through? And her mother? It’s so often the parents who create this sort of conflict and fistless life fight.

But when my mother turned 16 and the men landed on the moon – what was thought as a simple step for my grandparents was a forced and faithless leap for my mother –

My grandfather, he lit another Doral Doral cigarette, inhaled deep, scratched the arm of his favorite couch and pointed, as Neil and Edwin step out the Eagle, at the TV screen screen while muttering under his breath the only thing he could possibly say in this time to comfort my mother…

“This sure ought to piss off those Russians…”

The Callgirl and The Cop…

[We’d talked, essetially, about a blog that would sell the self as a product. I can only imagine the scrape marks on the barrel bottom when this story of mine is come across by anyone.

The self as a product?

Then, it has to be asked; how was this product conceived?]

I am a believer in time being a fairly unimportant contrivance that merely allows me to get to work on time and prevents my girlfriend from being mad at me if I show up to dinner at a random time expecting her to meet me there.

Time is useful, yes. But in the sense only that it that we can remember anniversaries, be punctual, follow morning rituals etc. In a much larger, more relevant, sense– time doesn’t exist. Days do not begin or end anymore than a tree was called a tree before we named it. And the earth has circled the sun far longer than we’ve had measurement tools.

So, then, where do I start?

60 years ago when the ideas that I plan to write about were just a bullet in the crotch of a cop in the “ABA club” on 6th Street that hasn’t been spoken of in decades?

Or how everything that led to this point is the 24 year long night terror that produced a high functioning adult with eccentric ways of therapeutically helping others?

Or is it really that nothing before or after this point is any of my damned business?

If I began at the absolute vestige of all of this it would be the evening of February 24th, 1957.

If I start here, a bullet is shot from a snub-nosed .38 revolver. Allan Carnahan is smiling at his mistress and she’s thinking of everything that wouldn’t make a man smile anywhere. Especially not in the empty gun holster of a narcotics division police officer. Shirley Cavanaugh with her smile, her hair, her short stature, her 4 children forgotten, her trigger finger curled in a gesture towards a man she’d actually fallen for.

Shirley and Allan- The Callgirl and The Cop.

Born into the, “stallion understanding of everything by the single click reliability,” that Allan would never have children now that his penis lay in multiple red chunks on the bar room floor.

This was Shirley’s last call. What the paper’s dubbed, “The Carnahan Affair.”

20111229-134251.jpg Pittsburgh Post-Gazette – May 29, 1957.
Oh grandma, you were so beautiful.

Shirley was a prostitute. One of the best. In the whorearchical ladder she dominated the top rungs. And when Pittsburgh had a, “Vice Squad,” they weren’t too up to date on human ethics.

And when Carnahan took the bullet to his crotch- Pittsburgh didn’t have a vice squad anymore.

What you could call a “Whorearchy” divides prostitutes into various classes the same way any other social group would. You’d have “slavegirls,” comparable to a burger flipper at McDonald’s, you have the “working class strumpet” or “streetwalker,” comparable to laborers and plumbers, higher still you’d have the exclusive “parlor house prostitutes” and “courtesans” which would be comparable roughly to professors and doctors.

My mother’s mother Shirley, she never walked the streets.

The exclusive ones, these parlor house courtesans, these were the women who’d get passed around corporations, bachelor parties for the Pittsburgh Vice Squad.

This is how Shirley became famous, she is why the Pittsburgh Vice Squad no longer had a Hooker Removal Division.

Now pretend that in this reality – contraception simply does not exist. Shirley Cavanaugh went Hansel and Greteling her life with children.

From what I know there were 2 alley way abortions, 2 barroom bathroom miscarriages, Uncle Forest, my mother and her brother Uncle Jim and my Aunt Judy. A handful of needles in a bed of hay that Shirley slept on when her career ended by landing her in jail.

Even Call-Girls get the blues.

In every press photo Shirley wouldn’t have been caught dead without a perfect updo for long hair and pristine makeup poised across a glimmering cantaloupe seed smile.

Miscarriages wipe the smile right off your face, and abortions just put the hurt worse on the inside.

Forest died at about the age of 5 or 8 from some sickness. Aunt Judy was – where ever. Uncle Jim and my mother, twins, maybe, split at birth.

Who really wants kids anyway?

Shirley Cavanaugh… The Patron Saint of all the Trick-Babies alive today.

When a business deal between a John and a Callgirl has quality control problems… That’s a trick-baby

And children can make problems on a profession like Shirley’s.

And those children- well, nothing normal will they ever be from birth forth. So you toss them in a crib in an abandoned house and forget about them. The 2nd youngest lay for a day dehydrating in a soiled crib until the neighbor heard her cries and called the police.

The 2nd youngest of the four was Ruth, my mother.

Where all of this began.