"he's literally just doing what an adventurer is supposed to do"

"do you think they think of us as Giant Adventurers?"

"do you know how many other creatures would be infesting our cave if there were no adventurers?"

"how would you like it if you were bumbling along on your little adventurer day, and some giant dragon thing squished you for the crime of being yourself?"

“Wow that adult was being a jerk”

“That sounds really frustrating”

”Good job handling that, I would have lost my mind”

“It’s cool, I don’t expect you to remember me”

“You don’t have to hug me if you don’t want to”

“Yeah sometimes (authority figure you can’t avoid) doesn’t know what they’re talking about, it’s not your fault, just do your best”

“I don’t totally understand what you mean but I get that you’re upset, is there anything I can do?”

”Wanna go yell and break stuff with me?”

“You don’t need to be friends with that kid as long as you can still be polite”

“If an adult tells you to do something that will get you hurt, you don’t have to listen.”

“My number one goal is to keep you safe, but I don’t know everything and sometimes I’m wrong, so let me know if I make a mistake.”

“Man. Today sucked.”

“Yeah I also kinda wanna cry right now”

“Whoops, yeah, my bad”

egg

if it's a skill, there's rules you can learn

if it's an art, rules are not your concern

make it fucked up or you won't make it

if it's already broken, you can't break it

anything can be fixed with gorilla glue

Women scientists made up 25% of the Pluto fly-by New Horizon team. Make sure you share this, because erasing women’s achievements in science and history is a tradition. Happens every day.

.

That’s fucking insane.

>click link

Okay so recently my darling angel cat son Ollie has been giving me signals that I have LEARNED means his natural young predator instincts are kicking in and he’s inviting me to play-wrestle, and over the last couple days I’ve been figuring how to go about stimulating these instincts without encouraging spontaneous violence, yeah?

So I’ve slowly started communicating with the word “fight” to signal that it’s okay to proceed- once he KNOWS the word I’ll get him another talking button to prompt me back, but for now, I’m going with body language- when he gives me his usual bastard signals, I say “fight”, sit on the ground, and cover my hands and arms with a backwards coat or a blanket. Right now, I put my covered arms up, and he’s been taking that as invitation to “attack”.

But I want him to know an emergency stop, too, so I figured when he bites too hard or gets too rough, I’ll make a high squeaking “ow” sound like I have normally since getting him.

Just like… five minutes ago, I was sitting on the floor wrassling with him, and one of his claws got through a hole and scratched my arm.

It wasn’t very bad, but it WAS a good learning opportunity, so I made the “ow” noise and dropped my arms.

My boy. My sweet perfect son. He froze mid-bite, holding on a second, then let go, let me scoot away, paused a sec… then snagged a nearby kicky fish toy, picked it up with his teeth, and started shaking it around like he was an angry little bulldog.

My precious baby angel recognized the ‘playing too rough/unhappy/pain’ sound, stopped of his own accord, and then- recognizing I was hurt and withdrawing, but still wanting very badly to fight- redirected himself UNPROMPTED to one of his toys instead of attempting to re-engage when I wasn’t ready

I’m so stupid proud right now. I’m very careful about not mentally anthropomorphizing animal behaviour because it can go so wrong but like. Seeing evidence that little mans KNEW we were playing, KNEW I wanted to stop, WANTED to keep going, made the connection in his head of “playing attack with dad - Dad hurt - Dad doesn’t want play - Ollie want play - attack Fishie” is absolutely insane.

It’s one thing to know he has a process, but it’s a totally different thing to like… slowly, carefully learn to work out exactly how he communicates, and watch him clearly think things out in return.

My baby likes to fight. My boy doesn’t want to hurt me. My little guy has a concept of respect and boundaries and inappropriate behaviour, as broad and nebulous as it is, and he is capable of making choices with that information.

It’s absolutely blowing my mind. He is a cat. He is 17 months old.

And he is demonstrating- to the greatest capacity that one could feasibly expect from an animal, to the best of his ability- what one may reasonably describe as kindness, consideration, and selflessness.

"Would you like to?"

"Sure!"

So I told them. I told them the story as I know it- and I've had a bit of practice. Orpheus, child of a wishing star, favorite of the messenger god, who had a hard-working, wonderful wife, Eurydice; his harp that could lull beasts to passivity, coax song from nymphs, and move mountains before him; and the men who, while he dreamed and composed, came to steal Eurydice away. I told of how she ran, and the water splashed up on my clothes. But I didn't care. I told of how the adder in the field bit her heel, and she died. I told of the Underworld- how Orpheus charmed the riverman, pacified Cerberus with a lullaby, and melted the hearts of the wise judges. I laughed as I remarked how lucky he was that it was winter- for Persephone was moved by his song where Hades was not. She convinced Hades to let Orpheus prove he was worthy of taking Eurydice. I tugged my coat back on, and said how Orpheus had to play and sing all the way out of the Underworld, without ever looking back to see if his beloved wife followed. And I told how, when he stopped for breath, he thought he heard her stumble and fall, and turned to help her up- but it was too late. I told the story four times after that, to four different groups, each larger than the last. And I must have cast a glance at the statue, something that said "I'm sorry, I miss you--" because when I finished my second to last retelling, a young boy piped up, perhaps seven or eight, and asked me a question that has made my day, and potentially my life: "Are you Orpheus?" I told the tale of the grieving bard so well, so convincingly, that in the eyes of a child I was telling not a story, but a memory. And while I laughed in the moment, with everyone else, I wept with gratitude and joy when I came home. This is more than I deserve, and I think I may never be sad again.