#animal cruelty cw

[dathen]

Victor Frankenstein: Teenage me was so evil because I experimented on animals while trying to cure death 😭

Jack Seward: What kind of BACKWARDS LOSER would oppose VIVISECTION?? Now only if I had a good reason to do it…

[blackbackedjackal]

not one owner in particular but the amount of people who come to me, a dog groomer, and say "oh yeah if hes acting up just yell at him" or even worse "just pop him its fine" makes me crazy, like??? you are giving me, a STRANGER, permission to fucking hit your dog??? its insane like, i dont know of anything that would make a dog less cooperative in a grooming environment then fucking VIOLENCE AGAINST THEM and thats your recommendation for me as their owner its horrible

I blame Cesar Millan tbh. That's absolutely horrible and kind of insane? Like putting a dog in an already semi stressful situation for them (being alone with a stranger touching all over them) and then being like "aha just fucking throttle them if they act out" like ughhhhh. People really don't understand that positive reinforcement goes FAR better than punishments for them.

[cxpperhead]

Nagaina is one of the snakes that's been in Copperhead's care the longest, about six years since he came to Gotham. He originally found her in a travelling circus way down south close to Arizona, featuring as part of a snake charmer's show. However her mouth had been sewn shut by her keeper, preventing her from being able to bite or spit while performing so Copperhead carefully cut the threads loose, laying in wait for her keeper to return.

Thinking he'd left her enclosure unlocked, her keeper mistakenly thought her to be harmless and went to pick her up, only to get bitten again and again for all the years of torment he'd put her through. His death was thought to have been a careless mistake rather than foul play as nothing was missing except the snake, leading authorities to believe it had simply managed to escape after a handling session had gone wrong. Years later and Nagaina is still with Copperhead, having no wish to leave nor return to the wild.

[fictionkinfessions]

wow my friends and i were so fucked up we threw handfuls of bees at each other like it was normal what

x

[bobcatmoran]

Arai is possibly the only adaptation I've seen that includes the title of Les Mis chapter 1.3.8, "The Death of a Horse."

Soon afterwards, though, the men go off to fetch the "surprise."

Wow, what can the surprise be? I'm sure that the ominousness of that final panel means nothing at all.

[unobjectionableurl]

[sail-not-drift]

Jess Jordan will always be famous.

[radio-charlie]

Ionno. Sorry to feel so little lol. Call me for a party when justice in America looks like this

[regexkind]

Reading chemical data sheets and they'll have LD50 information and they explain what species they killed and how and and and

Ahhhh :(

Ulqebpuybevp npvq, enoovg, qrezny YQ50

Got me very very upset

[thethirdromana]

so I decided to fix today's Beetle Weekly

(on AO3 here because why the hell not)

An Interlude with Edwards

It is rare that I disobey the direct wishes of my master, Sydney Atherton – and especially not his wish that I avoid entering his laboratory. I don’t know what disturbing matters he toys with there, and nor do I wish to, since it is scarcely in my power to prevent his activities. All I know is that they are a danger to life and limb!

Nonetheless I must note that I have been a lifelong supporter of the RSPCA. I have never been able to abide cruelty to any innocent animal; they are all God’s creatures, and under our protection.

Equally, loyalty to my employer has always been my watchword, as I believe it should be that of anyone in service.

It was these two instincts which warred within me when I saw Mr Atherton enter his home holding a poor dear little cat by the scruff of its neck. It was scrabbling for freedom but he would not let it go. He was with a friend, one of his more mannerly friends (not that it is my place to cast judgment on Mr Atherton’s choice of company), and the friend seemed quite distressed. Neither of them noticed me, though it was by agreement with Mr Atherton that I had stayed late.

They went into the laboratory together. A row ensued, quite audible from the house, in which Mr Atherton’s companion pleaded with him to let the cat go, and Mr Atherton, I am sorry to say (for he has always had my respect, and my loyalty, as it should be), did not heed him.

It half broke my heart to hear the poor creature yowl, I nearly broke in then and there, but that I have been in service these thirty-five years, and always remembered my place.

Then I heard the back door of the laboratory open. I could resist no longer; I seized my chance. I held my handkerchief over my mouth (for who knows what miasmas might lurk inside those walls!) and dashed into the laboratory. I looked neither left nor right, I simply snatched the limp body from within its glass box (monstrous, to do such a thing!) and went out again as quickly as I could.

I feared it was too late. But though the poor dear was quite limp, its tiny heart still beat!

I had promised Mr Atherton that I would stay only until 10pm, and it had reached that late hour already. I nestled the cat within my coat, against my breast, in hopes that the warmth might revive it, and travelled home by way of the Kensington Omnibus. By the time I reached my front door, it was beginning to recover.

“What’s that you’ve brought?” my wife asked me.

“You’ve said we wanted a mouser,” I reminded her.

Bless my dear wife, she is as fond of animals as I am, and as shocked when I told her what Mr Atherton had done.

“You should look for a new position,” she said.

“Then who would keep an eye on Mr Atherton?”

“Keep an eye on him?” she scoffed. “More like drop some rat-poison in his teacup.”

I chastised her, for I felt this was no way to speak of our betters, though within these pages I will confess to having had similar thoughts.

As I write this, the cat is curled up by my side and purring loudly. It seems that Mr Atherton’s experiment, whatever it was, proved to be no more than a knock-out gas, at least in its effects on those of a feline persuasion. Nonetheless, I will allow Mr Atherton to believe that it died and that I disposed of the body.

Mrs Edwards has proven quite pleased with the cat. She has decided to call him Edward, in honour of the Prince of Wales, and has put out a saucer of cream. May the Lord protect all the innocent creatures on this good green Earth!

[cxpperhead]

What's Copperhead's opinion on reptile shows?

Slipping this beneath the cut for animal cruelty mentions ~

Provided the animals are well-cared for and aren't being exploited by unscrupulous breeders, Copperhead can't bring himself to completely hate reptile shows? Anything that spreads public awareness and puts reptiles in a positive light is way better than ignorance and hate, and should the animals be in good health, treated well and handled by enthusiasts who know what they're doing, he's content to leave those people be. What Copperhead hates are people who care more about spinning profit than caring about the animals they claim to love. Breeding for certain colours and patterns is one thing, but certain lines are as detrimental to reptiles as pedigrees are to dogs. Spider Ball Pythons are one example, bred for their unique patterns despite horrific neurological side effects for the animal in question - the snakes perpetually have a 'wobble', can never see or move straight and are condemned to a miserable life from start to finish. All for the sake of a pretty pattern. He despises that so much, and in turn despises people who care more about getting a fancy-looking pet than actually caring about the impact their purchase has on the future of keeping reptiles, with more people getting into the hobby. Educating the public and showing them that reptiles aren't cold-blooded monsters looking to bite everyone is something he loves, whereas bastardizing nature and screwing with it for profit is one way to get his attention and not in a good way.

[fictionkinfessions]

tep HATE when people say pokemon battles like dog fighting. NOT like that. battles NOT abuse, pokemon like sparring is sport is FUN. some trainers bad but does not mean battles bad.

tep is tepig fictive. don't tag with tepfictive tep is just tep's name.

'

[nobuverse]

@yabokku said: EVEN IF LIFE IS PAINFUL & TOUGH, people should appreciate what it means to be ALIVE at all. ( For : Okita Souji. )

If the statement is supposed to be encouraging, she Okita doesn't find it to be so in the least. The once proud warrior can only meet it with disdain, giving a soul piercing glare in response.

She's on her knees, fingers trembling too badly to be able to properly hold on her tanto. She can still the old, decrepit cat she'd aimed to kill trotting away - proving to her how worthless she'd become.

Had she been trying to put the creature out of its misery?

No. She'd been trying to prove to herself that she could still kill. But it seems like she's fallen so far to this illness that she can't even manage to snuff out a life already half dead.

She coughs as she first opens her mouth in response, crimson splattering all over hands.

"And this..." she heaves, trying not choke on her own blood

"This is what you would call living...?"

[grizzly-bear-official]

Why you can't hug a bear? I have seen several people doing so 😭

hi anon, thanks for the ask! i'll try to explain. i'm not trying to sound like an asshole, so i apologize if it comes off that way. you asked a good question, and it deserves a genuine response!

cw: mentions of animal cruelty

there are several reasons that bears shouldn't be hugged. first of all, bears are very dangerous apex predators - even the most cuddly looking ones. they're wild animals, and being raised around humans doesn't guarantee that the bear won't suddenly decide to lash out. there have been several instances of 'tame' bears attacking their handlers, sometimes even unprovoked.

secondly, if petting, close up photo opportunities, or 'bear hugs' are being offered anywhere (petting zoo, 'sanctuary,' roadside zoo, etc), the owners of that place aren't acting responsibly and are probably not treating their animals like they should be treated. i'm not saying that this is true 100% of the time, but often the animals at these places are kept in poor conditions. small enclosures, inadequate nutrition + veterinary care, and overcrowding all contribute to a relatively high mortality rate and short lifespan for exotic animal petting zoo bears.

not only that, but bears that are being used for petting sometimes have their teeth removed 'as a precaution.' this is incredibly painful for the bear, and it makes eating difficult for them.

i'm not saying that every captive bear is being mistreated, but i am saying that captive bears that are used for interacting with the public are being mistreated.

tl,dr: more often than not, these animals are being exploited + mistreated for money. it's dangerous for both the people and the bears, and it's cruel to the bears as well.

[dnickels]

People don't even like dogs there are untold millions of dogs being born to die in a shelter because people can't bear to get their little man neutered or keep it under control and Florida residents MUST have pure-bred huskies for some unfathomable reason. Is there any species kept as a pet that isn't part of some mass torture network as an externality? Goldfish at fairs. Birds forbidden to fly. Deeply sick. Reading about dumpsters full of dead "product" at Petsmart makes me nauseous to contemplate.

[southeastasianists]

The venue is brimming with cheers of excitement from the chicken owners. Despite bets being placed before the game started, the value of a bet can build up as the stronger chicken continues to win.

The atmosphere gets intense.

The brown dirt floor is speckled with red; the smell of this blood mixes with the smoke of cigarettes and floats up to coat the twilight sky.

Blood splashed on the ground by the knife of the winning chicken signifies not only  masculinity and competition, but also the efforts dedicated to raising household chickens and the ability to earn an income off bets.

The rule of brutality is the loser cock will also contribute: not through a betting income, but through feeding the family.

In Timor-Leste, cockfighting is a strictly gendered event limited to men. Women are forbidden to attend, embargoed by the culture, but foreign observers – including myself – seem exempt from the rule.

Men’s work

Men gather every afternoon at 6pm in large fields to gamble on cockfighting (futu manu). In one evening, a man can spend from US$10-$200 per game in a country where the median monthly income per household is US$235.

Cockfighting is a cultural practice that has been prevalent in Southeast Asia, South America and the South Pacific for a long time. It is believed to have originated in South Asia before it was introduced into Greece in the time of Themistocles, 524–459 BCE.

Each night there is a series of fights between an agreed number of chickens over several rounds of battles. Each winner chicken will continuously fight to the next round until the ultimate winner is announced.

This traditional cultural activity has been commercialised as a petty cash source and a channel for getting windfalls for Timorese men since the Portuguese colonial era. It is possible to win a few hundred dollars in one day if the fighter chicken is well-trained and strong enough to win several times.

Loser cocks are frequently disabled, and a small corner is dedicated for them after each round. Owners take them home to serve for dinner. Timorese households rarely consume protein every meal. Especially in rural households, meat is eaten only a few days a week and these chickens form an important part of the diet.

Cockfighting has multiple advantages for a household: nutritional value, potential extra income, the leisure of excitement and a space for men to engage with peers and demonstrate masculinity and power during the game.

Women’s work

Chicken selling and dealing is reserved for women to earn petty cash and accumulate private savings.

Forbidding women to participate in cockfighting restricts access to fun and highlights the privilege of its masculine nature. But men are not allowed to sell chickens that belong to their wives, mothers, sisters or daughters: that is the women’s traditional “piggy bank”.

One chicken may sell for US$15-40, and one woman can raise up to seven chickens a year, depending on the available space.

Permitting only women to be in charge of chicken sales is a security deposit and balancing structure. The family economics cannot be squandered by men’s addiction to cockfighting: the rights of sale are determined by the women.

Men are allowed to keep, train and raise chickens in their own way. They can often be seen exchanging information about their chickens before and after fights. But women are the treasurers in dealing with household chickens.

Community work

For the community, the petty cash spent on cockfighting allows the continuity of a Timorese tradition and supports the local economy. Social and communal relations are sustained and the informal economy is supported: cash stays local and is spent locally.

Cockfighting trading and training require multiple business skills that benefit the livelihoods of participants’ families: developing the system to collect betting cash and issue winners’ takings, running events, facilitating the game and selling cigarettes and drinks.

Yet it exists in a vague and informal economic sphere in Timor-Leste: somewhere between a leisure activity to unwind and a commercial trade to make money.

Winning incomes feed local households, guarantees cash flow and secures protein intake. It can improve food security and nutrition, and can relate incomes to small business. It is also a form of preserving cultural heritage.

After the last round of cockfighting ends, some men gently hold their winning chickens as if they were babies, carry them in light blue nylon string bags to catch a minivan, or pat them softly while walking them home.

In that moment, I see these cocks are more than a tool of income generation.

They are pets, warriors and royal portrait animals for Timorese households.