#digestible dog chews

[blackhillsantlers]

Black Hills Antlers

Website: https://www.blackhillsantlers.com

Address : Rapid City, South Dakota, USA

Black Hills Antlers, based in Rapid City, SD, specializes in providing unique, all-natural antler dog chews. These chews cater to various dog types, particularly aiding in dental care and reducing anxiety and energy levels in pets. The company prides itself on exceptional customer service and offers a range of antler qualities, from economy to premium grades. Additionally, Black Hills Antlers deals in repurposed taxidermy, offering unique pieces for sale.

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/people/Black-Hills-Antlers/100076119704015/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/blackhillsantlers/

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[crehador]

the backgrounds from the new event make really banging phone wallpapers

[growlithe]

they should invent a dog that doesn’t eat things that give me heart attacks

[petpetisy]

Are Bully Sticks Safe for Dogs in 2024? Shocking Truth!

Are Bully Sticks Safe for Dogs? As a responsible pet owner, you’re likely always on the lookout for safe, engaging treats for your canine companion. Bully sticks have gained popularity in recent years, but you may wonder about their safety and nutritional value. These natural chews, made from bull pizzle, offer several benefits for dogs, including dental health and mental stimulation. However,…

[veganpropaganda]

🐄

[video description: a video by thegentlebarn. it starts with a clip of people grooming a cow's snout with the caption, "5 signs a cow is truly ✨ happy ✨." each of the captions describing the signs is accompanied by clips of cows exhibiting them. they are:

"1. they expose their belly for tummy rubs as a sign that they trust you 2. they initiate gentle physical contact like licking or hugging you 3. they're chewing cud - this means they feel safe & their digestive system is doing its thing 👍 4. zoomies! just like with dogs, this is most often a playful, happy behavior 5. they make a 'purring' sound - cows do this when they're extremely relaxed and content. it's like a big exhale"

in the background is peaceful instrumental music.]

[ceilidho]

sirius c

prompt: forced throuple au; Ghost decides that you and Johnny are his (part 7; ghoap x reader) [tags: noncon, implied cheating (in the context of Ghost's refusal to be a negotiation king lol), very nsfw] masterlist

-

No one tells you what to do when you finally notice the larger animal watching you from the thicket. 

It's been awhile now, you suspect. So long that it's managed to follow you all the way home.

Now they insist on helping you around the shop while you try to work. Try being the operative word. It’s hard to get much done with Simon scaring off all the customers and Johnny dogging at your heels, practically glued to your hip. You briefly consider stabbing him with the snips but then think the better of it. Simon’s stare follows you too closely for you to think you’d get away with it. 

Plus, after this morning—you cut that thought off at the root lest embarrassment make your eyeballs burn right out of your head. Despite the fact that he never brings it up, you can’t shake the thought that Simon knows. His face is just as expressionless with the mask off, which rests like a heavy weight on the kitchen table, imbued with a meaning too potent, too loaded, for you to fully digest or, really, understand in any concrete way. 

But the glint in his flinty eyes flirts with amusement. Brushes close to it. 

“What?” you snap, eggs dangling precariously from your fork.

His stare hasn’t wavered once since sitting you across from him. He doesn’t smirk nor snicker, but you can feel the laugh like a phantom limb that aches until you try to scratch it. He has a face carved from marble or granite, subject to some horrific fate. A statue pulled down from its pedestal and hauled into the river, now dragged out waterlogged and barnacle-crusted. Something terrible happened here and now something else wears its face.

His knees knock against yours under the table again, forcing one leg to spread to accommodate him. You stare at the elbow resting on your table as he chews off the end of a strip of bacon.

He doesn’t say anything, but you know he must have heard you and Johnny in the washroom earlier in the morning. Simon hadn’t even attempted to feign sleep when you’d come out flustered and turned around, stomach in knots. 

You can’t even look at Johnny for help because he stands behind the two of you at the counter, no space for him at your small kitchen table. Your life isn’t built to accommodate two men of their size; it’s hardly able to hold space for just the one.

Nevertheless, they stretch it to fit their needs.

Begrudgingly, you have to admit that Simon does help you out around the flower shop. He fixes the door to the supply closet that always jams, hoses down the sidewalk in front of the store where someone vomited near the entryway the night before, and even gives you a couple hours alone to yourself when he drags Johnny with him to do the bouquet deliveries. 

They come back with coffee in takeaway cups and pastries in a waxy bag and you nearly moan when you notice the label on the cup. Coffee from the good coffee shop across town. You actually moan when you sink your teeth into an almond croissant and then blink your eyes open wide when you hear Johnny groan in response. 

You steel yourself to keep your knees from knocking together.

It’s been a week since you saw him last. Hard to believe. You’ve been distant, rightfully so, contemplating the state of your relationship and coaxing yourself to the brink of texting him that it’s over, only to give up at the last possible minute. The tides receding again. 

You don’t think about how much you missed him. 

Since this morning, you’ve been on edge. Half tempted to corral Johnny into your apartment upstairs for some alone time. You don’t think Simon would allow that though, whether out of some sadistic glee in seeing you squirm or out of jealousy. It doesn’t seem unlikely. He acts like Johnny is his to do with what he pleases, and Johnny beams up at him like the sun and lets him.

You hadn’t realized there had been a third person in your relationship. Now it feels like his presence has always been felt. You can’t imagine Johnny without the half-shadow cast over his face.

All day, you wait for Johnny to break. Part of you hopes that it’ll be sooner rather than later. Unless he’s been entertaining someone on the side—and, for reasons unbeknownst to you, you discount that thought the second it comes to you, sure that you’d know if there was another woman—it’s likely that he hasn’t fucked in a week. He acts like it too, hovering close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off his body. Every accidental step back comes with a chance of landing straight into his arms. 

When you touch his arm gently to ask him to help you move a heavy flower pot, he looks down at you with irises gone black, ready to fuck on a dime. It’s not the right place or time, and you’re still tremendously pissed at him for letting his superior grope you in front of their whole platoon or whatever, but you’ve also gone a week without his dick, and you’re starting to think that your pride shouldn’t get in the way of good dick.

But then he looks over at the hulking figure haunting the doorway and draws back. The shadow on your relationship again. The tension breaks. Even though he postures and flexes when he helps you move the flower pot, it doesn’t come with an invitation to sneak away to your apartment upstairs. Johnny grits his teeth and holds himself back because Simon tells him to; because, in Simon’s own words, he’s a good lad. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you ask Simon when Johnny goes to take a leak, but he just stares at you with eyes still darkened by poorly wiped off eye black. 

The oxygen is sucked out of the room when it’s just the two of you. He’s imposing from afar, accentuated by the innate knowledge—gleaned just from looking at him, nothing more than that, just the size of him in his line of work—that he’s the most dangerous thing around, but with no one else to hide behind, you can’t help but feel like a trapped animal. 

“Means he knows who’s in charge,” he says. 

Like that’s supposed to tell you anything. 

The air still crackles with tension when Johnny comes back. He glances around almost nervously, pupils dilating. 

“The two of ye finally gettin’ on?” he asks.

There’s a moment where you consider ripping the veil down and saying, no, we aren’t, Johnny. You quisling. You can see exactly how uncomfortable I am. It’s more than visible; it’s oozing from my pores. You’ve let a wild animal into my house and now it won’t leave. In fact, it’s pissing on my sheets to mark its territory. You let it in knowingly, and even though you know something’s wrong, you’re letting it get worse.

Simon’s smile is severe and whetted when he cuts off your train of thought. “Reckon we're getting on like a house on fire, eh?” 

You can’t muster more than a weak smile and nod in response to that.

Around mid afternoon, a regular client calls in with a large, last minute order. You accept it because it’s nothing you don’t already have in stock, but it means you have to close the shop early to work on her order and then load up the van to drive to her place to drop the flowers off.

“I’ll come with you,” Simon grunts when you flip the sign and tell the two of them about your plans.

You freeze, a shudder rippling down your spine. “That’s not necessary—I can do it myself.”

“Don’t care.”

“I do it all the time when you’re not here!”

“It’s not up for debate,” he says, eyes going hard. Daring you to argue.

You’ve been getting the sense all day that he’s been trying to corner you, trying to get you on your own. You evade his efforts like a prey animal, but all that does is make him work harder for it. 

You look to Johnny for any kind of reassurance, someone to back you up and agree that you’re more than capable since you do this all the time, but he just grins from behind the counter where he helps cut lengths of cellophane and ribbon for the bouquets. “Aye, hen, let him help. Ye cannae carry all of that yourself.”

Your brain clicks back on when you’re barrelling towards your client’s place at breakneck speed, far too fast for a residential road. It’s not you driving though. Simon has himself parked in the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel and the other dangling loosely out the window. His driving makes your stomach churn, nausea brewing. You bone-knuckle the grab handle reflexively. 

“Could you slow down?” you hiss out through clenched teeth.

Simon ignores you until you start to scroll through your phone to distract yourself. He transfers the hand on the wheel to jostle your knee with his free hand. “Eyes on the road.”

“I’m not even driving you,” you squawk, heart thudding in your chest when his hand doesn’t lift off your knee. 

“Tell me when to turn, doll.” The pet name makes your stomach jump. When he says it, his hand tightens over your knee, thick fingers with scraped up knuckles curling around, the width of his palm wider than your kneecap and you stare down dumbly, rabbit heart careening at the same speed as the van. 

You’re so dumbfounded that you nearly miss the street. He takes the turn suddenly when you mention it instead of making the sensible call to go up the next street and then come back down, and you swear and yell when he nearly takes the van onto the right two wheels. 

The sweat is still dripping down the nape of your neck when he parks in front of the client’s venue.

Simon ignores any attempt of yours to help unload the van. All you can do is watch helplessly as he carries multiple arrangements into the venue at once, leaving you to handle the contract and payment collection. The situation is spiraling rapidly out of your control. 

Your client, a housewife about a decade or so older than you, eyes him as he passes with two flower pots tucked under his arms. 

“I didn’t know you changed staff,” she murmurs, eyes following him into the next room and lingering on the backs of his thighs when he bends down to deposit the flower pots, making the material of his pants strain tight around his glutes and hamstrings. 

“I didn’t,” you protest, shaking your head. “That’s—he’s my boyfriend’s coworker. Um, his boss, I mean. I think. He’s just helping out for the day.”

“Well, I know how I’d like him to help out,” someone else giggles. One of the venue staff, judging by her uniform. Even your client titters at that.

Simon’s more approachable with the mask off, it seems. Still verging on the preternatural, but at least without the mask he seems more human. All six-foot-five-inches of him, arms and legs packed with a generous helping of muscle and fat; a square jaw must be appealing to any sex-parched person within range. It makes your jaw clench.

“Here’s your receipt,” you grit out before ripping it off the payment terminal and handing it to her. She blinks at your dour mood, unused to a less than professional version of you, but that’s what Simon’s presence does to you. Sours you right up. A lemon squeezed right into the mouth.

He’s posted by the van when you come out still scowling and itching for a row. He frowns at the look on your face. “Fix your attitude. You’ve already upset Johnny enough.”

You halt in your tracks, dumbstruck. “I’ve upset Johnny?”

“Yeah. So fix it before we get back.”

You’ve officially reached your limit. All day, you’ve been waiting to go nuclear, bad mood settling deeper and deeper into you because you’ve never been good at managing your anger. The audacity to blame you for this whole situation nearly makes you lose your head. 

Simon looks almost bored when you stomp up to him and stab a finger into his chest. You pointedly do not let yourself focus on how little his chest gives beneath your finger. “All of this was your fault for sexually harassing me in the first place. I don’t even think you were ever sorry for that—this all just feels like some fucked up attempt to break me and Johnny up.”

He stares down at you. “You think I want Johnny for myself?”

Heat flares under your collar, but you push on. “I do. And you know what? You can have him. I don’t need this. Johnny clearly values your approval more than mine anyway or none of this ever would have happened once he caught you groping me in broad daylight. If you want him so bad, nothing I do is going to work, so why even bother? He’s yours. The both of you can fuck off when we get back—I’m sick of having you in my space.”

The tirade leaves you panting by the end of it, and then you look into his eyes. 

You wonder if it’s a universal phenomenon to sense the moment when you’ve made a grave miscalculation. It must be. The feeling is overwhelming; for you, it throbs in your very bones. 

Simon’s expression never changes, but the light behind his eyes starts to flicker in a different way, and you are suddenly conscious of him not just as a man but as a man paid to kill. A professional at that. At least a dozen bodies under his belt and likely more, and yet you stand chest to chest with him like you’re somehow tougher than that; like all those bodies mean nothing, like his knife hasn’t quenched its bloodthirst ad infinitum, like his arms haven’t felt a neck crack until it’s become a habit, an easy kill, a morning fix. 

You’ve never felt more like meat than under his gaze. 

“Get your ass in the van,” he commands, and you listen because your mouth has gone dry and you understand now, somewhere deep in your reptile brain, a little creature hissing at you to turn and run, that he doesn’t warn. He just does. 

Humiliation festers under your skin when he buckles you in. Your mouth opens on a smart remark until you catch a glimpse of him from the corner of your eye and it’s all anger leaking tar, mafic lava dark and flowing, smooth and lobed and striated with hellfire. 

You think at first that he’s just going to drive you home. Your words might have offended him, but the lack of refutation makes you think that at his core, he must agree. Simon is just another man with an unholy allegiance to ego, an ugly incarnation of desire and pride that you might have briefly mistook as a person as complex as yourself until he snuffed that inkling right out with a hand on your ass. 

Then, lost in your thoughts, you miss when he pulls over and puts the van in park. 

You hear the click of your seatbelt, but your head doesn’t have time to turn before Simon hauls you over the center console and into his lap, a hand already clamping over your mouth to muffle your scream. 

“I’ve had enough of the fuckin’ attitude, girl,” Simon snarls into your ear, shoving his hand down the front of your pants without any preamble, the stretchy jogger fabric not putting up any resistance. “I haven’t got the patience for it. We’ll sort you out and knock these stupid notions from your skull.”

You must shriek under his palm because his fingers tighten, digits pressed into your jaw to the point of aching. It’s hard to tell under the white hot fear that washes over you, nearly blinding you. 

If it bothers him to find you dry under your panties, he doesn’t say anything. Calloused fingers spread your labia wide and trace over your clit lazily, trying to coax the slick out of you. You squirm in his hold, desperate to somehow wriggle out, but Simon chooses now to give you a glimpse of his strength, holding you tight to his chest. No matter how much you squirm, there’s no way out of his hold. Shouting behind his palm doesn’t help either; Simon just curls his hand tighter over your mouth. 

Horror blooms in your chest when your core starts to warm up at his touch. The first traitorous bead of wetness nearly has you apoplectic with rage. His fingers saw up and down over your slit until he thinks you’re wet enough to handle two fingers shoved knuckle deep. 

“Enough of that,” Simon grunts when you yelp and knee the underside of the steering wheel in your haste to get away. “It’s just two. You’ve been fucked before; you can take it.”

Your knee aches from slamming into the steering wheel, but it’s nothing compared to the ache of his fingers stretching you open, the skin around his knuckles delicate and febrile. For all his flaws, Johnny loves getting his mouth on your pussy before trying to cram his cock in, addicted to the taste of you on his tongue when he’s got you folded in half and taking his dick like a champ. Simon seems like he wouldn’t mind railing you in the back of the van without any prep whatsoever. 

“Can’t wait to break you on my cock,” he growls, his breath hot over your neck, and lust stinking up the van so bad that the air is nearly rancid with it. Sulfuric. “You think you’ve had it rough with Johnny? You don’t have a fuckin’ clue what you’re in for with me.”

His hunger is a noxious, billowing cloud. Miasma like. It threatens to smother you. His shaft is hard under your ass, evident when he thrusts his hips up. Your ensuing yip makes him grunt, gratified, like his pleasure comes part from your shock. 

“I’m not explaining this shit anymore. This is the way it’s gonna be from now on—no discussion, no arguing, no nothing. It’s not up for negotiation.”

Simon’s fingers piston into you without remorse, brutal hunger foisted off on your body. You again try desperately to push away from him, almost levitating out of his arms until he forces you back down and bites down hard over your clothed shoulder. The horn stays silent when you try to honk it, mocking you somehow. You wonder if anyone would hear your muffled cries from beneath Simon’s hand if they happened to pass by, or if they’d chance a glance into the van and see the devil himself playing with your pussy in his lap and keep on walking. 

Your body plays you for a fool though, sweltering under his touch. When he growls in your ear, your pussy clenches up nice and tight, and slick drips down your inner thighs. 

A third finger nearly makes you choke on your gasp. You go quiet after that save for the occasional whimper, all of your energy concentrated on accommodating his fingers, each as wide as almost two of yours. A fourth almost doesn’t feel fathomable, but then he sinks it into you and every thought leaks out of your head.

“Christ, you’re a dream when you shut your mouth, aren’t you, doll?” Simon breathes, nosing the corner of your jaw. “Johnny picked a nice little cunt for himself.” 

He doesn’t pick up on the irony somehow. Even shaking in his lap, your brows furrow at his words, a barb on the tip of your tongue until a glob of slick leaks from you and wrenches you back out of your head. 

He clicks his tongue against his teeth all condescendingly when your breathing goes hitched and panicked, so close to coming that you feel a hairsbreadth from it. When you jump at the sound of his tongue snapping in your ear, he chuckles, the broad chest at your back shaking with his laughter.

“There we go,” Simon murmurs, rubbing a soothing hand over your belly. “Tired, eh? Just need to come and have a nap. I know Johnny left you hanging this morning. Poor girl.”

You hadn’t even noticed that he’d dropped his hand from your mouth to your stomach, but there’s nothing to do about it now. All you can do is lean back against him and stare at the fine, blond hair on his knuckles as he drags it over your belly button in slow, languid strokes. 

“Oh god—” you groan when he thumbs your pearled clit and sinks his fingers in as deep as they’ll go, your hole stretched too tight. 

Sweat beads on your hairline. It feels like tears might be leaking down your cheeks, but it’s hard to say. The only thing you can do is focus on not coming apart at the seams.

The air in the van is moistened by your breath, the windows almost completely fogged up. Your lower back aches from arching into his hand. When it comes out in a sob, he tells you he’ll have Johnny massage it when the two of you get home. 

“It’s always gonna hurt a little with me,” Simon says, and you almost mistake it for apologetic until he pulls you into an open-mouthed kiss that makes you twist your neck and ignores the way you whimper into his mouth.  

You nearly black out when he finally makes you come, your head tipping back and resting on his shoulder. You tense in his grasp and open your mouth on a soundless moan when your walls spasm around his fingers. Nothing you can do but let it happen. Like splintering down the middle. It hits you so hard that your belly cramps. 

Shame hits you so much harder. A half second after, like the sky splitting open and a voice thundering down, you know what you did. 

Your leg gives a feeble twitch when he pulls his fingers out, his palm soaked with your juices. You’re a limp mess of sour sweat and come in his lap, reeking of sex musk and a warm, spicy scent. 

You squeal and jolt back to awareness when he pushes a finger back in, sensitive to the point of pain. “Simon, I can’t—”

“Hold still; m’not done yet,” he cuts you off, irritation layered in his voice again. 

You don’t have to endure it for as long this time at least; he paws at your overworked sex and pants in your ear like a bear. Luxuriating in the soft, wet folds of your pussy. His touch isn’t clumsy, but it feels like he’s making up for lost time. It almost makes you wonder how long he’s wanting to get between your legs, but that thought evaporates when he reaches further down to press his fingers against the rim of your other hole, chuckling into your hair when you clench up. 

Then, after a few minutes, he pulls his hand out of your joggers and pats your belly with his wet fingers, leaving dewy strands of your juices on your skin before helping you back into the passenger seat. You don’t even have it in you to protest when he buckles you in again. You even accept it when he leans over to plant another wet kiss on your mouth, one with too much tongue and too much teeth, come drunk and aching for any kind of affection. 

“Sweet as pie, eh?” Simon rasps, eyes half-lidded and heady. Almost lovesick. “Couldn’t have asked for better.”

You stare at the side of his head as he drives the two of you back to the shop, eyes glued to his cauliflower ear. Rough son of a bitch. Brute strength hewn into his bones, covetous need in his veins.

And this is what your boyfriend thought was appropriate to bring home. 

He stops one more time to feed his cock down your throat before you make it home. Your tongue curls around the mushroomed head of dick when he drags your head down, the wiry hair at his crotch tickling your nose. The scent of him here is pungent, musky. Old lichenous rocks and rust like blood on your tongue. You’re so pliable that you hardly even gag when it touches the back of your throat. 

His come is still hot and tacky on your tongue when he pulls you into his lap to let you cry it out, wiping up your tears with a rough thumb. It’s a while before you manage to settle down again. 

Johnny’s still beaming behind the counter when you come in, Simon at your rear to keep you from running, his hand planted firmly at the small of your back. You can barely look your boyfriend in the eye. You’re afraid he’ll see it plain as day on your face, hair mused and lips swollen from sucking his lieutenant off in the van on the drive home. 

“The two of ye have a good time all by yourselves?” he asks, either deliberately ignoring the obvious or naively trusting. You don’t know which would be worse.

You can hear the dry grin in Simon’s voice. “We had a nice chat, didn’t we, doll?”

All you can muster is a weak smile and croak, “Yep. We did.”

You hold off a flinch when Simon’s hand slips down and grabs a handful of your ass.

[earthgenics]

At Pet Wellness Group, we believe that a healthy pet is a happy pet, and we're dedicated to providing comprehensive support for your furry friend's well-being. Whether you're looking for preventative care to keep your pet in top shape or need specialized treatment for a particular health concern, our team of experienced veterinarians and animal health professionals are here to help.

[directdogman]

would it be kosher if i ate gingi

Considering the practice relates to eating animals that are considered clean or unclean, I'd have to say no by default, but to look at the scripture for a moment:

"Leviticus 11:3–8 and Deuteronomy 14:4–8 both give the same general set of rules for identifying which land animals (Hebrew: בהמות Behemoth) are ritually clean. According to these, any animal which "chews the cud" (e.g., consumes vegetation and later regurgitates it into the mouth to be re-processed and more efficiently digested) and has a completely split hoof (cloven-foot) is ritually clean, but those which only chew the cud or only have cloven hooves are unclean."

Gingi has a cow-like stomach (compartmentalized). While Gingi has a massive aversion to eating vegetables, I do picture that Gingi does occasionally chew grass when its stomachs are upset to make itself puke - like cats and dogs do. Since Gingi doesn't have cloven hooves, this would mean that Gingi's meat is definitely not kosher.

Sorry about that. Hope this helps.

[femmefatalevibe]

Femme Fatale Guide: Tips To Relieve Everyday Bloating

As someone who has dealt with chronic bloating for a lot of my life, here are some of my thoughts, observations, and recommendations. HUGE disclaimer: I am in no way an expert on this, a medical professional, nutritionist, or anything of the sort.

Especially for women, bloating can be a sign of gynecological issues (endometriosis, PCOS, hormone imbalances like estrogen dominance, and even a warning sign of ovarian cancer). So, if you experience constant bloating that doesn't get better with improved digestion, schedule an OB/GYN appointment ASAP to ensure that everything is okay on the women's health front.

Everyone's triggers are different, but for me, these are some of the common causes of bloating that I've noticed:

Lack of sleep

Stress

Eating too quickly or while stressed

Lack of movement/walking

Not drinking enough water

High-fat meals

Chewing gum

Carbonated drinks/alcohol

Here are some of my best tips, habits, and product recommendations to manage & minimize bloating:

Engage in a 1-minute diaphragmatic aka deep-belly breathing exercise in bed right after waking up and right before going to sleep (place one hand on the middle of your chest and the other in the central "hollow" area right below your rib cage)

Get at least 6-7 hours of sleep a night

Have a bowl of oatmeal (made with plain oats and water) with cinnamon and fruit every morning

Drink water before any coffee in the morning; Only having at most 16oz or one large mug of coffee before breakfast in the morning

Chew my food slowly, taking time between bites

Drink at least 8 large glasses of water daily

Take my Vitamin B12 and Vitamin D supplement daily (I love the Deva brand!)

Have avocados/use avocado oil as my primary fat source (I love nuts/nut butter, but they really bloat me, so find your trigger foods!); I've found a large salad with a romaine lettuce base, some veggies, avocado, and an ACV-based dressing works wonders to settle my stomach or steamed spinach with roasted root vegetables/potatoes

Use digestive enzymes when necessary (These digestive enzymes are my favorites!)

Take at least 30 minutes to walk/move around daily (Pilates, yoga, or bodyweight exercises also work)

Drink ginger tea or some herbal-based tea nightly (my long-time favorite is Bigelow Benefits Calm Stomach Ginger Peach Herbal Tea!)

Don't eat anything for at least 3 hours before bed

For trapped gas: Try lying on your stomach, engaging in the downward dog yoga position or fetal position on the left side, or doing an abdominal massage (rubbing in a circular motion from the right side of your pelvis up through your rib cage down and around the left side) all work well!

[emlittly]

Monster pred appreciation post

Hulking, fluffy werewolf who slobbers you with a sloppy tongue and dog breath and who can't help but scar you with little bites and nips because they NEED to devour you as quick as fucking possible. (On that note their gut is gross. Like - Half-digested meats and half chewed bones all gunked with chyme and slop and that's before your body's gone and gotten cramped in there.

Vampire pred who's elegant about the whole thing. Oh yes they're not your typical predator, looking as feeble or small as a normal human, but they'll butter you up, tell you how delectable your smell is, how badly they need to unwrap you, sink their teeth in there, let their gut slowly churn away at a nice, juicy meal. (Vampire pred eating tinies like fruit gushers. That is all.)

Mermaid preds who operate under the blue-whale school of evolution. Mermaid preds who grow massive, who can keep growing so long as they keep aging. Mermaid preds that are whispered about in the dead of night at the sailors pub. A ship the size of a skyscraper went missing in the North Atlantic one night and all that could be seen in its wake were bubble the size of cars foaming up at the surface the next day. Their guts they say take years to fully digest what's in them - poor souls lost in the ocean are said to take even longer surviving on the wreckage within.

[queen-mabs-revenge]

v happy to sound like an alien right along with you bc i cannot fathom a world where this is not the peak of fascination oh my god.

i'm just -- where else do you get this kind of primary source exploration of the contemporary-to-publishing world in such a constant and uninterrupted stream over nearly a fucking century? like you can argue serial magazines - which have been around since idk the mid 1800s or whatever idk don't quote me - but it's not the same bc it's not an unbroken story!

even the serialized novels published in those magazines are different to the singular serialized narrative of comics. how in comics even over different authors and editors the narrative framing has to maintain a certain level of consistency -- the characters and their world are the constant lens through which the cultural changes of the passing years are interpreted and gooooood HELLO HELLO ARE WE NOT SCREAMING???

and esp bc they're categorized as low art? as juvenile media written by adults about mostly adults? as an initially working-class art form that has been subjected to increasing corporate capture? except bc this is a constant narrative you can actually trace those changes through historical moments??????? you can read them as a material record of the way we tell stories to each other about the history we experience??? mediated through an increasingly dominant profit motive??????

i will never shut the fuck up about this FUUUUUUCK

me 🤝 @queen-mabs-revenge: the "playing with the cardboard box it came in" of mainstream comics fan experience

[is-the-snake-video-cute]

i wanna hear about your opinion in the definition of venom tho

I am thrilled to tell you! This is something that I have actually seen herpetology conferences nearly come to blows over. I've known mature adults resort to petty name-calling over this argument.

So, the traditional view is that a venomous reptile must meet three critera.

They must possess venom ducts encased within fangs.

Venom must be injected.

Venom must be used to kill prey.

I think this traditional definition is NONSENSE!

It's the reason that rear-fanged venomous snakes like hognoses (who don't inject venom in the same sense as other venomous snakes) have traditionally been considered non-venomous.

A lot of modern herpetologists also agree that the traditional view is baloney, but coming up with a new definition is when we start arguing.

Is it still venom if the reptile's venom ducts aren't in the teeth? Does it count if the venom isn't injected? Does it count if the venom is only used to help digest prey or cause injury?

The big reptile that a lot of us argue about is the humble Komodo dragon. Komodo dragons have venom ducts between their teeth, but don't have fangs, and their venom is probably used more to help them debilitate prey than anything else. If an animal is bitten by a Komodo dragon, it's probably going to die, whether from blood loss or something else, so the venom is honestly a bit of a moot point but it's the principle of the thing.

Komodo dragons are also a big deal because including them as venomous challenges the traditional view of when venom entered the squamate scene. Veranids are a primitive group of lizards, and if Komodo dragons have venom, other monitors probably do too - and it all means that venom is probably pretty deep in the squamate family tree. It's traditionally thought that snakes are where venom first popped up and beaded lizards and Gila monsters were just an anomoly, but current research is suggesting that it's probable many lizards are venomous at least on some level.

So how do we incoroporate all this information? How do we define venom?

Here's the camp I fall into. I think we desperately need a new definition of venom, and I align with other herpetologists who think we need these criteria for a reptile to count as venomous:

Reptile must have venom ducts (whether in a fang or between the teeth)

Venom does not need to be injected and might be chewed into prey incidentally during the process of hunting or eating

Venom remains venom regardless of if it is used directly to kill prey or serves another function related to hunting or eating, such as helping the reptile's body break down prey after eating

You won't find many herpetologists who can agree on how many lizards we should count as venomous, though. All it takes to get a room full of herpetologists to go dead quiet like a hunting dog scenting a deer is to just bring up Komodo dragons.

[teaandmisanthropy]

We had to say goodbye to Snookums a few weeks ago, on August 16, 2024. These are some of the last pictures I have of him.

He was becoming increasingly uncomfortable as a result of (probably) lymphoma and had been losing weight for a couple of months and his digestive system was deteriorating.

He got lots of attention and extra treats at the end of his life, and he lived to the age of fifteen and was a happy, goofy, lazy snugglebug who was full of affection for us and friendly to everybody, including multiple dog acquaintances. He was a devoted, biddable sidekick to the BB (Arwen) (2007-2021) and a wonderful adoptive uncle to Tristana (2020, adopted April 2021-). And despite being a mellow fraidy cat who had always been submissive before, he didn't hesitate to become the senior boss cat and tell off Anubis (who is young and unusually strong and was about half again his size) and actually defended Tristana from Anubis's attempted attacks a few times when he managed to breach containment.

Snookums was my baby, and what you might call my familiar animal or one true cat, from the time we brought him home. He spent three days hiding in a blanket cave in the sauna at our old apartment in Turku and wouldn't eat for over 24 hours, until I finally got him to by feeding him from my hand.

He was afraid of crackling noises and especially plastic bags and loved chasing/ collecting hair elastics and chewing on rubber bands and silicone oven mitts and old wired earbud wires, all of which had to be hidden from him. He loved kisses and his method of kissing was to headbutt you in the head, earning him the nickname "butthead".

He was also the most talkative cat we had ever met when we got him, and used to meet me every time I came home and make a long speech that I referred to as the Kittysburg Address. He purred very loudly and was terrible at cleaning his own claws, which was perhaps partly because he was already missing a couple of the tiny teeth when we got him at age 1.5, but mostly because he was lazy. So he had to have toe gunk cleaned from his claw sheaths basically his whole life and he hated it, but was fundamentally non violent, so the most resistance he ever offered was occasionally squirming in a half hearted escape attempt.

When he was young he also used to wake me up in the middle of the night wanting to play, and I woke up many times back then to find his toys (usually hair bands and silicone oven mitts) in or around the bed. But even when young and irrepressible, Snookums was pretty lazy and spent much more time snoozing and snuggling than the BB, who often ran around bouncing off the walls without him, even though he was her constant companion and playmate.

In later years he got more lazy, as well as becoming more like himself in other ways (snuggly, silly, food-motivated), and he also acquired diabetes, which reduced his energy a lot. But he lived for about six years with his diabetes under control after his diagnosis, and was doing very well recently. The final illness was probably not related to his diabetes.

For many years, actually since he was very young, I used to periodically just start crying while I was holding him in my arms, because I loved him so much. The spectre of losing him someday, even when it was far in the future, was already scaring me. (We got him two years after the death of @waxjism's One True Cat, Lily, so this wasn't out of left field.) Maybe I did some of my grieving in advance. I felt like I didn't have time to grieve right after, but even though the sadness is massive, I have had an easier time adjusting my brain to the new reality than after the loss of past pets. Cornish rexes are very snuggly and affectionate cats and most of them spend a lot of time lying on people's laps, giving out hugs, basically, but Snookums is the only pet I've ever felt was comforting and soothing me just as much with his snuggles as I was soothing him.

[strvingforuuu]

So here is my meal plan for every week of August

Monday

Fast for the entire day then at 11 eat something that Dosent go above 520 cals if I feel extremely tempted during the day do chew and spit or drink a bottle of water and wait 22 minutes

Tuesday

Liquid fast for the entire day, drink water, 🍵 tea, Diet Coke, and coffee❤️

Wednesday

600 cal limit if u go over like 604 calls it’s alright🍯 just try not too

Have protein in every meal 🧸

No junk food pls💕 ( tru fru has fruit in it so I’m having that)

NO SODA😀

workout, u don’t have to burn all the calories u ate so u can still have energy⭐️

If u don’t feel like working out go on a 18 minute walk🍵

Have portion control and don’t get more than 2-3 plates of something🗝

Take time between every bite so I can digest it properly 🦇

Don’t watch tv while eating it’s a distraction causing u to eat more🎀( god I’ve been waiting to use that bow )

Thursday

Liquid fast same liquids as Tuesday except Capri-suns are only 35 cals so u can have 2 throughout the day

Friday

Congrats if u have made it this far 🎊 for this day u have no reward bc ur not a fucking dog🤗instead ur fasting today and at the end of the day at 10 u can have a plate of air and sleep bc u have a metab tomrrow🤥

Saturday 😰

Metab day! Ur cal limit is 2000-1000

Make sure to get at least 100grams of protein or 50 grams

Have at least 1 healthy meal

Not too much junk food

No soda only soft drinks🍹

Sunday

Another metab day! Cal limit is 800-900

No soda

Have 1 junk food

Consume 80 grams or more protein

Don’t go over blared with junk since tommrow it’s repeat

Add extra rules if u want

Add extra rules if u want

Add extra rules if u want

🔄

[tommys-cant-swim]

So, you want to get a tommy

Great! Tommys are wonderful creatures and full of personality. But there are things you should consider before getting them:

Tommys have a very long lifespan compared to dogs or cats- 35-40 years to be exact. A tommy is a big commitment and if you're on the older side you might even need to pass yours on to another family member.

Tommys are extremely energetic, overwhelmingly so. By the time I finish tiring out my tommys, I'm usually sweating and exhausted (love them though)

The most popular breed of tommy (dsmp or canon depending on who you ask) are significantly more prone to anxiety than other breeds. Please do not get one just because you've seen them online

Tommys have diets that may be upsetting to some people- they eat bugs and shellfish (and fruit), if you're upset by either, don't get one, please.

All that being said, here's a quick and dirty guide to getting your first tommy!

Choosing a tommy

There are lots of ways to choose a tommy, there's plenty of shelters to choose from and most house every kind of tommy. I recommend going in person and picking whichever you feel the closest to- but picking a specific breed is fine too! I'll leave a guide to the two breeds I know best (feel free to add info about other breeds)

DSMP/Canon - As previously stated, a very popular breed of tommy. They form strong bonds with owners and other pets and generally mix well with other popular mcyts such as tubbos and wilburs. However, they are easily startled and can be very messy due to being burrowers. They're also known to experience strong 'play aggression' and can accidentally injure others if they get too riled up.

Origin(s) - I know much less about this breed, but I still feel confident speaking on them as I have fostered origins tommys in the past. Origins tommys are much more mentally sound than dsmp breeds and do not have the major caveat of having to eat bugs as they are completely vegetarian! However, they do have minor flight abilities, which may be a turn-off for some owners.

Setting up your home for your tommy

Tommys need an outdoor area of at least 25 sq ft for digging and general enrichment. Tommys who are let outside unsupervised should be belled to prevent damage to the local ecosystem and the tommy themselves, as they have a bad habit of eating birds and squirrels, fur and bones, which they cannot digest.

All tommys need a small, private space to hide and rest in. A cardboard box will do just fine under most circumstances as long as it is large enough for your tommy to stretch out in to prevent claustrophobic anxiety (which dsmp tommys are especially prone to).

Lastly, tommys need chew toys. Chewing is their main way of relieving stress and expressing joy and not having a consistent outlet for it is extremely upsetting for them.

Additional advice

Tommys cannot swim and should not be let near bodies of water deeper than knee-height.

Dsmp tommys are terrified of heights and should not be placed on counters or tables.

Tommy's Can be picked up by the scruff

My other guides:

Caring for tommys with anxiety Tommy mouthing Introducing two tommys (this can really be applied to introducing a tommy to any pet)

[fatfables]

Too Fat to Fuck

A new short, punk rock, fat fable.

“Went to a party. I gorged all night. I ate 16 slices and looked a sight. But now I’m stuffed. You’re out of luck. I’m stuck on the sofa, too fat to fuck.”

These were the first lyrics that I ever wrote. I was fifteen and thought that I was gonna be a rockstar. It was 1982 and my band was called “The Fat Bellamys.” We thought it was the coolest name ever because Bellamy kind of sounds like bellies. Fat rockstars and fat punkers were unheard of back then. We all pretended to be brothers when really we were just best friends. I was the lead singer and took the name, Jelly Bellamy. Malcolm was not a good name for a frontman. Jelly suited me well. In my skin-tight ripped jeans and stained wife-beater vest, ass and belly a-bulging, I thought I was the dog’s proverbials, wobbling around on stage like a rolly-polly lunatic. I would spit half-chewed pizza crusts at the disgusted audience as I screamed out my shitty lyrics, diaphragm visibly vibrating. I was determined to be the most popular fat kid in the valley.

The rest of the band consisted of Kevin (Tubby Bellamy) on guitar, Jay (Chubby Bellamy) on bass, and Killian (Kill the Bellamy) on drums. Killian was the fattest of us by far and the best looking. I was always secretly jealous of him. The drummer is always the fattest guy in the band. He also got to sit down all the time which I thought was hella unfair.

We practised in the store room out the back of my Dad’s pizza restaurant. It was also the only place that we ever performed. The restaurant was called “Do Littles” a pun on our surname, Dolittle, as in the doctor who could talk to the animals. Not that anyone in my family ever tried to talk to animals, we were too busy eating them and living up to our moniker by being as lazy and idle as possible. Dad was not a hard worker and neither was I. 

The restaurant was located on a side street off the south end of Ventura and was famous for its large greasy pies, large greasy owners, and large greasy customers. We played there every Saturday night for three years in return for free pizzas and sodas. Who needs paying when you’ve already got all the free food that you need right? I must’ve gained a hundred pounds or more in the few years that I was playing at the restaurant, as did the rest of the band.

We used to pull in a sizeable regular crowd of chubby punk kids, geeks, gluttons, and other assorted fat losers. Our fans were all the kids that would rather fill their faces than get high on crack and PCP with the “cool” kids at the Whiskey. We all thought that it was way cooler to die of diabetes than an overdose. We were the Chris Farley to their River Phoenix. We were ahead of our time.

Every weekend we would stuff ourselves stupid for hours on slippery slices of deep pan pepperoni, melted gooey four cheeses with stuffed crusts, and massive 20” meat feasts. We’d slurp down bucket loads of free refillable sodas and slushies until we were fit to burst. Then we would go on stage for twenty minutes. Huff and puff as we attempted to thrash out a handful of two minute songs, betweens our burps, before exhaustedly stumbling off stage and back to our booth to refill once more.

I wrote a few other songs during that period that we added to our weekend menu. “Eat the Poor,” was interpreted by some as being a satirical take-down of the Reagan administration's economic policies, but really it was just my personal desire to eat, digest, and excrete poor people. “California Uber Bellies,” was our theme song, and just generally spoke to how we saw ourselves. “Give Me Convenience Foods of Give Me Death,” speaks for itself, as did “Ice Cream Truck.” But it was with, “Too Fat to Fuck,” that we finished every performance. That was our masterpiece. That was the cherry on the cream, on the cake, that sat on top of the sundae, that was our set.

I wrote it when I was fifteen so had never had sex for that reason. I didn’t know that I was writing my own prophecy. Anyway, girls were kind of hard to come by in the fat geek punk scene. Or at least they were until Melissa showed up.

She was beautiful with curves as wide as the horizon. Her dumper truck ass and thighs looked so succulent trapped in her multi-coloured leggings. She was as wide as the door with the silverest cellulite and fattest cankles that I had ever seen. Her belly hung soft and low and appeared to wave, with every step and breath, as if it were made of melted chocolate. It hung limp like a bumpy deflated tire, in comparison to mine, which was round and smooth, and ballooned out like an over inflated beach ball, due to the years of excessive intake of carbs and sugar, with which I’d joyously glutted it on a daily basis. I was in love. And that was before she even ordered.

I saw her looking back at me and she smiled as she told the waiter, Merrill, that she wanted three twenty inch Seafood pizzas with extra cheese. I waved Merrill over and loudly copied her order to insure that she would notice me. She did and it worked. We matched each other for hours, meat feast after meat feast. I’d never seen a woman devour so many recently living creatures, of land and sea, flattened out on thick greasy, cheesy dough before. Eventually it was time to play and I shook my giant hips and ass at her. She lapped it up and when I took off my 4XL t-shirt in order to show her my sweaty glistening love handles I swore I could see that she was getting wet.

After the show I got up the guts to go and talk to her and we sat for hours talking about our favourite foods and restaurants while we continued to fill our bellies. By the time we snuck off to the store room we must have been drunk on at least ten pizzas a piece.

This is where it went wrong. As hard as I tried I couldn’t get it in her. Our bellies were just too large and incompatible. With my 48” pants around my ankles and my massively bloated beach ball belly bouncing around, my dick just didn’t reach far enough. My boulder smashed into her soft wobbly beachfront but we couldn’t make the all important connection. We tried it standing, we tried it sitting, we tried it every which way but loose, but it wouldn’t work. I had just turned eighteen years old and was already too fat to fuck.

After about fifteen minutes of immense sweating and effort she noticed that I was starting to lose my boner and became upset. This agitation turned into real anger and she eventually stormed off, leaving me alone in the store room with my sad semi and over 200 lbs of pizza dough. As she left she swore that she would get me back for the humiliation. She slammed the door shut and I was left to satisfy myself with the dough.

The next weekend I was shocked when she turned up with her “cousin” Enrico. He was huge and muscular, over 6 ft tall, and 300 lbs. I nervously ate my own weight in pizza wondering what was going to happen. He raped me in the store room after the show. Apparently, you can be too fat to fuck, but not too fat to be gay.

I went off punk music soon after that. It’s funny how the most aggressive sexual violence possible can affect you. Also, a copycat band had just come out. They called themselves the “Anarchy Burgers (Hold the Salad)” and were based at a burger and hot dog joint in Pasadena. They totally ripped off our idea. The final nail in the coffin was when I got a ‘cease and desist’ order from some company called ‘Alternative Tentacles,’ which I thought was strange. I always believed that was an entirely different kink.

Read more fatfables at www.fatfables.com