Husbands eating cream[ir

Hello we adopted a feral kitten from an animal rescue 6 months ago. I've previously had a feral kitten and he warmed up 10x faster than this cat. We can pet her sometimes if we approach slowly but her body language shows she doesn't love it. We can set treats in front of her now and she'll eat them. She loves playing with our other cat. However the main problem is she will still hiss at me and my husband a good amount and often runaway if we get anywhere near her. We have the pheromone diffusers and plenty of places for her to hide when she wants to. We're just confused if she's ever going to be an affectionate cat or not. We just don't want to be hissed at all the time and be able to interact with her normally. I'm not sure if this is normal for a feral cat taken off the street and we should give her more time to adjust or what. Any advice would be greatly appreciated.

What’s in the closet, Kirsty?
He knew I hid a secret.
I smiled, tried to look confused.
He waited, crossing his arms.
I worried that he'd already seen. He had.
What else could he think about the pile?
His wife’s a cheater. She has another life. Another husband. Children.
He’d never believe the truth: I’m not a cheater; there’s no other life; no other man; I don’t know who the children are who visit me at night.
But I did have a secret. And maybe it’s fair to say another life, even if was smaller and against my will.
I should have destroyed those frames, burned the photos within. Now it looked like I saved them, cherished them. The truth couldn’t be farther. I feared to touch anything to do with… whatever they are…with one exception.
“It started last Halloween,” I said to George, my husband, my real husband.
He stopped packing for a moment, working out the impossibility of this statement. “I’m taking the girls to my parents.” He resumed the tossing of shirts, pants, etc. into our big suitcase.
“It’s true,” I said, but weakly. The children in the picture are at least six and four respectively. They were born six months ago.
“They’re not… my kids,” I said of the boys in the photos. They’re not kids is what I almost said.
George stopped and squeezed the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “Kirsty,” he said slowly, “there are baby pictures. I saw them.”
“That’s-”
He quickly raised his finger, exasperated, angry, done.
“The first picture is you holding a newborn, and…” He swallowed painfully, his throat gone dry. It always does when he’s upset. “And the father in that picture, with his arm around you, isn’t me.”
When I couldn't deny it, he nodded like he knew all along our marriage would end.
We were happy. We really were. George and I had managed to overcome the typical breakdown that often comes with raising children. Only since last Halloween had distance been made by me.
I should have told him as soon as it started.
“Girls!” he called as I followed him down the stairs to the front hall of our lovely home. We’d scrimped and sacrificed to buy and keep this place, our dream by the lake. He’d been so proud. I couldn’t tell him I wanted to leave the first night sleeping there.
Cara and Ella protested through play, ignoring the adults, continuing to jump on an old box they’d long since flattened. Rays from the western sun placed my daughters into an inspired, hallowed light, and I started to cry. He was going to take my babies away.
George opened the door, intending, I’m sure, to drop the suitcase in the car before returning to physically carry the girls out.
But he hesitated in the doorway.
“George?”
The suitcase fell with a solid thud on the floor. “There’s no way,” he said.
“What?”
“There’s no way,” he said, with emphasis on the last word, “you would have had time for…this…”
Not defining "this" as cheating was progress. “Yes!”
He glared, quieting my desperate enthusiasm. I wasn’t off the hook. “Tell me. The truth.”
“I can’t.”
He reached for the suitcase.
“No, not because I don’t want to,” I protested. “I don’t know what’s happening!” I sat on the carpeted steps and stared through blurred vision at my trembling hands. The shriek I’d filled the house with - “happening!” - had put a halt to the box's obliteration. Cara and Ella hesitated for a few seconds before leaping into action.
Cara, the oldest, six, punched her dad in the buttocks. “You have to be nice!”
Ella, four, sat beside me and patted my trembling hands. “It’s okay, mummy.”
Such lovely daughters. Nothing like the boys in those photos when they were this age.
George grasped Cara's wrists and gently walked her back into the house, using his foot to kick the suitcase from the swing of the front door.
"It's alright, girls," he said with weak resolve. "Go and play."
"No!" Cara shouted. She kicked at her father and he pulled her close into a bearhug. Gradually, the girls calmed and were convinced to return to the box in the front room.
"Kirsty," George said, "you have to tell me." He sat down on the step beside me. "Please." I would do anything to take away the hurt in his eyes. "Please."
"I can't. But… I can write it down. Maybe." I took out my phone. We shared Google Drive. When I made a new document, he reluctantly started his phone. The man was a dream. He watched his screen, and waited patiently for my words to appear.
Without preamble, I returned to the awful moment when it all began: a strange and disturbing dream. Words came like an infection from beneath a torn scab. The wound had been opened. Nothing could stop this now.
Sex with another man has never been a desire of mine. I love George. He loves me.
Plus, the man in my dream was a stranger, and not particularly handsome. He has a plain face set to unwavering boredom and unkempt male pattern baldness. Our dream sex felt obligatory, just something we had to do.
I awoke on the wrong side of midnight. November 1st and I was craving ice cream instead of the girls' gathered candy. The freezer left by the previous homeowners came with unopened ice cream. Freezer burned or not, I wanted some.
After retrieving a spoon from the kitchen, I intended to destroy a brick of neopolitan. He waited in his flannel pajamas, barefoot on the concrete floor. His arms were crossed.
"Cravings?" he said.
I dropped the spoon. It clattered down the basement steps. Before I could run away, he disappeared like someone had erased him from head to foot in one clean sweep.
Had to be a dream. That's what I told myself. The spoon stayed in the basement until daylight. Ghost or nightmare, there was laundry to do the next day.
I crossed the concrete floor fast and only felt safer when I'd closed the door to the more modern laundry room. Never thought builder's grade tiles and track lights would make me feel anything but sad.
His voice caught me sorting.
"Kirsty!"
I dropped the cup of detergent all over the floor.
"Shit."
I came out of the laundry room, figuring George had been looking for me in uncharacteristically rude fashion. He hated speaking between rooms. Shouting throughout the house was highly impolite. It must have been important, I figured.
As soon as I stepped onto the bare concrete, however, deep sadness, the kind that seems to physically leech the strength from your body, dominated the room.
"Hello?" I don't know why I said that. The basement is a low ceilinged rectangle. There are no hiding spots except for the laundry room I'd come from. After a deep breath, I walked briskly to the stairs.
"Any day now," a raspy voice breathed into my ear. I jolted and slipped forward, falling and clipping my chin off a step. It made my teeth click painfully. Nobody there, of course. I ran upstairs and George had gone outside with the girls to play hide and seek.
I wanted to tell him. He looked so happy. It's hard to convey in words the kind of smile he showed me through the window. Imagine contentment mixed with unreserved joy and hope. Yes, it's difficult to picture. So few of us can ever have such a moment. Sort of like finding a natural view completely untouched by humanity. Beyond rare and precious.
I’m rambling now to avoid writing about what followed. The point is I couldn’t tell him. I hoped it’d go away and stop.
But, of course, it didn’t, and things got much worse.
I awoke in a great deal of pain. Having already given birth to children, the feeling was familiar. Despite getting up and gasping, George continued to snore in our bed. He’s a deep sleeper, but a quick and early riser. I’ve never heard him complain about getting out of bed either, especially when there’s an emergency.
I might have woken him up but I was disoriented and confused. Part of me believed I was still pregnant with Ella. It wasn’t until I’d gone all the way to the kitchen to avoid waking up the girls, that my brain caught up: Girls. Plural. Ella was asleep in her bed upstairs.
“Ohhhhhhhh shiiiiiiiiiiit.” I knew the signs of labour. This couldn’t be happening. “Ohhhhhhhhh.”
I was definitely going to wake everyone up if this continued.
My phone was upstairs by my bedside table. We don’t have a landline. I should have called 911. I should have woken up George.
Instead, I went downstairs where I could vocalize pain without disturbing anyone. Such a pathetically passive response. But that’s how I was raised. Keep it down, don't you frown.
His hands seized mine as soon as I descended the last step. Serious and bald without dignity is how to best describe his physical appearance. Cold and cruel is what he is. The lights turned off and, in the perfect darkness of the basement, he was all that I could see.
He produces a red light from his body somehow but his touch is literally frosty.
"Kristy, it's time," he said. No joy there. Just straight facts. Something was coming. I was going to give birth to it. In the dull red glow of his being, the first boy came.
"His name is Hadad," the man said, placing a large, infant boy with a lot of hair and, I swear, a hint of beard, on the bare concrete. Hadad looked like a three month old they use as newborns on TV. He didn't cry. He hardly seemed to breathe as his dark eyes roamed the darkness. His light resembled the man's, a less intense red.
I felt another contraction, and winced.
"She comes next," the man said.
I felt so weak. "Who are you?" I asked him.
At last, he smiled and I wished he hadn't. It made me feel small, insignificant, and beneath his concern. "You know who I am," he said. "I'm your husband."
Pain wracked my entire body. Something didn't feel right. The birth of Cara and Ella had been without difficulty.
"Push," my "husband" ordered. "She is upset with you, and will kill you if you don't get her out now."
"It has to be a nightmare," I told him. Sweat poured in streams down my face. The unborn "she" in question writhed and damaged my insides. I screamed. I couldn't help it.
"Push!"
I obeyed and the second boy spilled onto the bare concrete, coated in blood and dust.
"It's a boy," I said.
The man looked displeased. "The body is male. She is Hebat. No wonder she is angry." Like the other infant, Hebat appeared aware of her surroundings and had far too much motor control for a newborn. The light pouring from her body was dull silver. Her eye sockets were two pits of concentrated despair. I had to look away.
The babies were pressed into my arms.
The man stretched out beside me. "Open your eyes and smile." I resisted. "Do it. Now." What choice did I have? The flash from his cell blinded me. They were all gone by the time my sight recovered. Only the sweat remained as evidence of the ordeal.
It had to have been a hallucination. Some very bad food poisoning maybe. The source could be as simple as an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of underdone potato. I had been stress eating since we'd moved in. I stood up and took some comfort in a Charles Dickens' reference.
"More of gravy than of grave about you," I said. My words seemed consumed by the dreadful weight of the air. "Whatever you are."
Whatever you are: something bad in any case. At best, I'd hallucinated prolonged and traumatic labour and needed medical attention. Yet, when I limped up the basement stairs, all thoughts of waking George vanished. There on the kitchen island sat a propped frame containing the photograph taken only moments ago.
The man looked happy. Only Hadad appeared in this picture, which meant another one was somewhere. I didn't panic. I worried more about what George would think if he saw the photos. I had to find them all.
Hebat and his father and I were mounted in a dark wood frame by the master bedroom. It'd be the first thing anyone saw if they woke up. I plucked it off the wall and, together with the first photo, tucked it under some blankets in the dresser we'd shoved in the small walk-in closet.
You might not believe this, but I went straight to sleep after. I climbed under the blanket in my sweaty pajamas, shut my eyes, and didn't have enough time to deny what had happened. I was unconscious until morning.
George placed a coffee on my nightstand. That's what I remember. He rubbed my feet while I slowly awoke. The girls were watching TV downstairs, munching on apple slices. There was forty minutes still before we had to seriously consider getting ready to take Cara to school.
George would drop her off on his way to work downtown. He chose his hours and always chose convenience for his wife and kids. Ella and I planned to spend the morning gardening. Then we would nap much of the afternoon away until George and Cara returned. A life so perfect is so very rare.
I didn't want to spoil things with a very convincing nightmare. Besides, I felt fine. Not so good that I wanted to look in the dresser to see if those photos really were there, but not ill. So I remained silent again.
November started fine. Idyllic days and nights filled with laughter and joy and television. Just as I started to believe in the dream we'd made, they came again.
The wail of a child's hunger is a powerful call for a parent. When it's a chorus, even of two, it cannot be ignored. Only I awoke to Hadad and Hebat's cries for their "mother" from the basement.
Half asleep, I drifted into the kitchen and searched for their milk bottles. When no bottles could be found, I remembered they were newborns. Milk swelled in my breasts and made my nipples ache. Just like when Cara or Ella would awaken in the night. It was a relief to feed them.
But what the fuck was I doing?
I was acting like the man in the basement and the devil babies were mine. It'd been less than a week since Halloween and that horrible nightmare illusion. I had already taken on the beleaguered newborn mother role without question.
Their cries intensified and flayed the weak resistance of exhausted reasoning.
Don't wake George. Don't wake my babies, my real babies.
"What took you so long?" the man critized, his voice monotone, the question unrhetorical.
"I… was sleeping. I went to the fridge first." Under his severe gaze, I stopped in the midst of the dark room. Hadad had quieted. Hebat cooed as if laughing at her own joke. I couldn't see them because the lights were off. They liked the dark better. Somehow I knew that about them and him.
"You should sleep down here," he said. "A mother should always be close to her babies."
The statement was nonsense but not altogether wrong. I wanted to be close to my babies, the daughters sleeping in bliss upstairs, away from the evil fermentation in the basement.
"Kirsty," he said. "Are you listening?" His hand touched the small of my back. The gentleness surprised me. I squawked and flinched away. "What’s wrong with you? They're hungry." He pressed on my shoulders until I sat on the cold floor.
They came from the shadows, already walking. I wanted to go, but I knew he wouldn't allow it. He pulled my cat t-shirt off over my head and their fierce mouths suckled, relieving the pressure of excess breast milk quickly. It felt physically good and psychologically alien.
I looked down at them once and immediately regretted it. Their emanated light had intensified to a point where perception of them hurt.
Each time I blinked my eyes were drawn to some isolated part of their bodies. The vision got closer to the point of disgust. Everything is gross if you're close enough. There is no beauty under a microscope. If you think there is then you're not using the right magnification.
Hebat's eye drew me in. At first, I saw the dark sphere, and then the strands of her eyelashes. Her gravity kept pulling until the creatures that live in eyelashes were revealed: Demodex folliculorum. I looked the microscopic horrors up.
The babies had more parasites than any child should. They wanted to show me and could somehow do so.
I asked him about it. "Why are they showing me these worms?"
He smiled, contemptuously as usual. "Trying to impress mother. Neither of them understand your horror and insignificance. You are the ant who knows they're an ant. Lucky you. They think you will be proud of the life their corporeal forms produce and host. Give them a few hours. It will pass."
"Why are you doing this to me?"
"I'm not sure what you mean. We're married. Now, prepare to smile." His cell reappeared and I noted the lack of features; it might have been a singed rectangle of spent firewood. He frowned when I failed to smile. "Smile, Kirsty. These are your children."
I managed to stave off the tears and hold the babies close. The smile was more difficult. In the inevitable aftermath of their sudden disappearance, the frames depicted an exhausted, wrinkly woman smiling painfully. It took a second to recognize myself.
The things in the basement sapped my strength. I looked dehydrated, beleaguered. The scale in the bathroom said I'd dropped six pounds. I'd weighed myself the morning before.
"Whoa, you've lost weight," George noted, thinking I'd be pleased. "This place has been so good for us, eh?'
To produce another smile proved as draining as the previous night. "Y-yes," I stuttered too late for him to ignore.
"Hey," he said, touching my forearm.
I flinched.
"Whoa, you okay? What's wrong?"
I should have told him. "Nothing. Bad sleep. A nightmare. I'll be fine."
A lie is an agreement. George wanted to agree, I think. He wanted life to be fine because he was happy for once. We struggled so hard before we came to Bridal Veil Lake. It was supposed to be our dream.
Guilty if I told him the truth. Guilty because I didn't. I began to resent his happiness, though he had done nothing but be the wonderful man he'd always been.
To Cara and Ella I became a body in motion, No brain left to guide them away from harm or answer their questions about nature and the universe.
"I don't know." That's what I told them often.
So they began to treat me like a kind of butler.
"Can I have some juice, please?"
"Sure, sweetheart."
"Mommy, can I have a snack?"
"Of course." And I'd run off to fetch it.
"Cookies."
"Yes, dear."
When Christmas came, I had two and they induced the same level of joy. Visiting the basement to feed and nurture Hebat and Hadad became a nightly occurrence. I'd learned to awaken, if I could get to sleep at all, and go quietly.
He berated me severely if I missed a night, and there were subtle threats made casually.
"I may have to squash you yet," he said, his tone as deep and cold as always.
"It won't happen again," I promised. "They’re getting big." In fact, they were no longer infants. Both had grown to the approximate age of six or seven in a few months. Still, they never spoke. Their dark eyes watched me as they ate food from the kitchen upstairs, food I'd hidden from my family.
"More meat," the man demanded.
"Of course." And I ran to the freezer and gave them frozen sausages in the package. They never complained or demanded the food be prepared a different way. No objections from my "husband" either.
Hebat tore the styrofoam and plastic wrap away and flattened the row of sausages stuck together between powerful molars. Hadad contented itself with licking them like a popsicle.
I'd stay until the photo. Then they'd release me by vanishing. Always with an exhausted breath, I'd trudge up the stairs and search for the frames and hide them in the same place.
They only smiled in the pictures. At no other time did they express any kind of emotion unless indifference counts.
My own children and husband weren't doing much better. Their concerns about my fatigue and ruminating slowly ceased as I repeated the excuse: I’m just tired. It'll pass.
Of course, I did not know when the nightmare would stop.
"When will it end?" I asked him one night, while Hebat and Hadad exercised like they had a mission.
"What do you mean?" he said.
I was surprised he answered. He usually didn't. "This. This. When can I go back to normal and not come down every night? I'm so very tired."
He frowned and I thought some punishment must be coming. Instead, he looked more confused. "I don't understand. You aren't happy? Your children grow into power and strength and will take their place in the world. They will be great and you - you, of all the tiny things, made that happen. Ask yourself what you want out of life, and see if Hebat and Haddad aren't your answer."
Too many words, all at once, for an exhausted mother. I didn't speak for the rest of the night. The infernal trio vanished, and the latter moments of the ritual I carried out with his challenge in mind.
I want my children to be strong, happy, and safe.
"Juice," Cara demanded the next morning, a Saturday, while she watched cartoons.
"Get it yourself!" I hissed, from tired to angry in a second.
"But I can't," Cara accurately pointed out. She didn't look away from the TV. Looking at me wasn't safe, and she knew it. Her and Ella held hands and sat a little straighter. It broke my heart. What had I done?
George came downstairs, attracted by my shouting. "What’s going on?"
Empathy became sadness, and the constant burden rekindled to anger swiftly. "Just children treating me like a servant."
He smiled. "Ah, yes, and how are the royal princesses this morning?"
His levity irked me. "You would know if you didn't sleep in so much."
The smile vanished from his face, and instead of the fight I seemed to want, he mumbled a quiet apology and joined the girls. They climbed onto him as he wrapped them into a cuddle.
"What are we watching?" George restarted his smile, his calm, for the girls. I hated myself. It had to end. Tonight.
After another dreary day of going through the motions, and the girls and George had fallen asleep, I went to the kitchen and chose the knife I thought sharpest.
"Kirsty," he said, his voice a whisper rising from the depths of the house.
"Coming," I whispered back.
"Mom," said another voice, a girl's, and I knew that Hebat had, at last, found herself and the wholeness of her being had been corrected.
I started to cry. I went downstairs and there she was with her brother and her father. He looked tired but some of the grimness had cracked to allow the first real contentment I've ever seen him express.
"Is that for the cake?" he asked. "We already have one."
I remembered the sharp knife. "Meat," I said. "There’s ham in the freezer."
He nodded, seeming to accept the answer.
"Mom," Hebat said, "Do you think I'm…" She gestured to herself, her face, and her body, and I understood the question, born from doubt and a desire to be validated.
I pulled her close. "You are the most beautiful girl in the whole world." We cried together. Hadad cut into a poorly made, asymmetrical cake by the light of his aura. No one cared that he did so on the floor. I brought out the ham from the fridge and we ate slices with our hands.
"It's almost done," he said. "They’re nearly grown. They are strong, and they are happy. You've done a good job, Kirsty." He watched our children fight to smear icing on each other's faces. "I'm sorry if I was mean. Or cold. I've never done this before." And he meant raising children. "It was the hardest, scariest thing anyone can try. I shouldn't have blamed you for… Hebat… It wasn't your fault."
Before I could pat his hand, he and the kids vanished. Darkness so familiar couldn't extinguish a new fear. I went upstairs and found the last frame. I held my daughter in the photo, my beautiful Hebat. He must have taken the photo without my notice.
I took it upstairs but couldn't bring myself to hide it.
I didn't see that one, George wrote into the document.
I forgot he was watching.
He typed again: Are you saying there is something in the basement?
Yes, I replied.
He stirred in the living room. I hadn't moved from the stairs, but I could tell by his stomping how angry he'd become. All of his negative, violent traits he saved for those in the world who would harm his family. George the Protector was fearsome to behold.
But he had no chance against my other husband.
"Come out! Come out you coward!" George bellowed. At first, nothing happened. The moment before calamity, even when the specific consequences aren't known, is still in slow motion. He carried on shouting. The girls rushed into the hall and didn’t hesitate to investigate.
"No!" I shouted. "Cara! Ella!"
Their feet padded down the steps. A violent commotion followed, screams and raging voices, both deep and childishly shrill.
The most unsettling quiet followed.
I chewed through the fear and the horror tearing me apart and finally moved.
No evidence of violence could be seen from the top of the stairs. The concrete looked bare and dusty and the light revealed nothing more. They were gone, all of them.
"Hebat," I whispered. "Cara? George?"
Him, I thought of, the nameless husband and felt no hint of his presence. He'd always been there. I know that now. It had nothing to do with the house. His absence was felt more than his insidious presence. Yet, I felt no relief. George and the girls were gone. I sat on the floor and cried for all my missing children.
When I finally emerged from the basement, the whole house had been filled with night. Their photos were everywhere. The others were upstairs. I gathered them on the kitchen island. How could I explain any of this to the police?
I needed help. I called my parents. It took twenty minutes before my father picked up.
"Kirsty? What's wrong?"
"Dad," I whimpered. "George is gone. Cara. Ella."
"What? What did you say?"
"They’re gone, dad. George. The girls are gone."
I heard his bed springs protest as he rolled out of bed. My mom said something I couldn't hear, and he shushed her.
"Kirsty," he said, "are you alright? Are you hurt? Are you in danger?"
Why was it so hard to understand? "Dad. George is gone."
"Kirsty, who the hell is George?"
It was my turn to be confused. "He's my- you know him. My husband…"
"Kirsty," he said very slowly, "are you on drugs? Did you take something?"
"No. Are you?"
"Excuse me?"
I hung up.
I have their photos. I have all of their photos. That's what I brought to George's parents before the sun rose. They wouldn't open the door and spoke to me through an intercom.
"George is gone," I said.
"We'll call the police."
"This is your son. These are your granddaughters."
I heard my mother-in-law say, "Who is she?"
"We don't have a son," my father-in-law said. "Go away."
I left.
Back to the house. Our dream sat empty and I live there, but none of the people in my family photos are my family.
I remember but the world never does. My parents think I'm ill and that I used AI to create the family I apparently never had.
How did I buy the house without a job or income? With deep concern for my mental health, they showed me a news story. I had won the lottery the day I turned eighteen.
His influence there, payment for services rendered.
A lie is an agreement.
What had I agreed to? I'm afraid I know the answer: I never wanted a family.
God help me. God help them.
I don't know what to do with these pictures.

Do you feel so cool running to Kia and letting her know what people on here say? Does it make you feel needed and wanted because your husband can’t do that and you never had friends in high school? You’re defending two child abusers, and might I add you have 2 children yourself right? Do you feed them mold for discipline? Are you going to be the next Ruby Frank and Kia’s Jodi Hildabrant because that’s exactly what it is sounding like and best believe your name will be all over this. It would be a shame if your husbands job found out that y’all are a bunch of child abuse supporters. Do you spend all your free time eating Kia’s ass or do you give Jenn a turn? You’re a disgusting ass person for thinking this shit is okay and if I remember correctly you were all over TikTok when you first got dragged saying you were only there for Kia because she was trying to leave Travis…funny because she’s sitting there allowing all those kids be fucking abused and you’re in your house doing god knows what to your kids. I’m sorry there’s no fucking way you’re not doing the same shit to your kids supporting her. You’re disgusting,you cross eyed bitch.

Posting this for a very good friend of mine. I've met the dog in question many times. She is a lover and has never acted aggressively towards me.
-—-————— Way to re-home dog who bit once in defense? We adopted our sweet, smart cattle dog mix almost a year ago from a shelter. Within a week we realized she was very leash-reactive to other dogs--but the sweetest dog to all humans. We committed to keeping her past the 'trial' period, and we did extensive training. We saw slow but steady progress. And she had the chance to play with the neighbor dog unleashed and was great--regular bouncy friendly dog.
We signed her up for a recommended board and train to really tamp down her leash reactivity this summer, but right after that, had a defensive/guarding bite incident. It was the perfect storm of bad conditions: we went to a concert and the dog was in the crate longer than usual--till way past her bedtime. She hadn't eaten her food or treats in the crate. When we got home, the dog took the extra special treat and tried to hide to eat in peace. The wired kids thought it was funny to see this giant-Cheeto yak cheese dog treat, so they followed her, ignoring dog cues as she moved away and then to another room. And this is my fault, too. The kids have had the talk so many times: do not touch or bother an animal while it's eating or sleeping. And I said it again this time: "The dog has chosen this spot to eat her treat. Don't touch her." But I didn't keep them apart. So kid 1 dropped something on the floor and when he bent down to pick it up, he put his hand right on the blanket next to the treat, and his face right at her face level--and she bit him on the nose. Because it was on his face, we took him to the emergency room. It required three stitches. Now my husband says the dog should go to the shelter, but they won't adopt out "aggressive" dogs.
I took the dog to a behaviorist, who said from everything they saw, she is not aggressive and is very trainable--an excellent candidate for agility. Now she's enrolled in a two week board and train to have a place for her to be.
I'm gutted about all of this. I want to hopefully find a new home where she--newly trained, with a year of training support available and the budding career of an agility dog--can go. How do we find a good place for this sweet girl--how can we make sure she has a second chance?

Question for women- How do you guys deal with toxic in-laws?
I have toxic MIL and Bhabhi (BIL's wife). My FIL and BIL are very nice. I already live seperately with my Husband in another city due to my job. But everytime I go back for a few days my mental health suffers a lot. There's nothing drastic that these women do, they also don't like each other. But they never leave a chance to say something negative to me, especially when it's just us women and no men are around.
Eg. My bhabhi never serves me food, she'll do that for the entire house but not for me. She will never offer me anything to eat. She will plan and plot against me and tell lies to my mil about me.
My husband tells me to ignore these little things, but when such things happen throughout the day it gets to me. I'm dreading going back the next time. And I keep replaying all these instances.

Hello. My husband and I are traveling to Milan in July for 5 days. My husband is doing some work at a research conference for the first two days, so I will be mostly solo for those days. The final 3 we will be together.
We are flying into MXP and have a 6am flight out on LIN to return to the States via a connection in AMS.
Aware that it is a warm time of year, looking to spend mornings and evenings outdoors and mid day indoors (or even napping 😂).
Staying at the top of the Naviglio canals. His conference is a few minutes from Duomo. Are the trains reliable? Google maps tells me there are plenty, but want to know real life experiences.
Is there a recommended way to explore Milan in a quads? (Like explore the northeast quad one day, southeast quad the next, etc) .
I'mget anxious about food as in eating too much and then regretting it later. Are portions smaller in Milan?
Are there any amazing museums or sites are that more "hidden gems"?
We are LGBT as well; any recommendations for bars or lounges to wind down the nights?
Finally, we are returning home via Linate for a 620am flight on a Sunday. It seems train options are limited if we want to arrive by 420am. Is Uber reliable or is there a more local ride-share app?
Thank you all!

I made a post a few days ago about going to the local farmers market, and I wanted to report on the fun day and huge haul!

1. Got a ton of ground beef, pork chops, chicken. Prices per pound were similar or even lower to Loblaws, but the meat looks so much fresher. The chicken I got was twice the size as a grocery store chicken!
2. I got some surprising delicious baked goods. I have a health condition that limits the foods I can eat, yet the market had multiple stalls selling foods safe for me to eat. I got some donuts that taste like old school Tim Horton donuts, some éclairs and cookies. It was a real joy to come across them!
3. So many fruits and veggies. I got beautiful fresh and bright raspberries for 2 bucks a clam (and they are the large ones, not the half sized), giant bag of green beans for 5, beautiful cabbage for 3, a whole heaping basket of over 20 red peppers for 10. Big bundles of tender asparagus 2 for 5. A large bag of unique lions mane mushrooms for 11 (they were delicious in butter!). I know I got more but there was so much that I had to get right to food prep when I got home so I could fit all the food I got into my fridge and freezers!
4. So many snacks, drink, entertainment. There were musicians playing some really beautiful music, and there were so many ready-to-eat goodies in every nook and cranny. I couldn't have much, but my husband was on cloud 9 with all the samples and goodies he was able to get! He got a delicious juicy burger with the fixings, and a delicious box of fresh apple fritters.
5. The merchandise stalls were so much fun! Even if they weren't items I wanted myself, it was fun to check out all the cool designs and creations businesses had thought up, or to be able to check out items that are otherwise hard to find. I was able to get a whole set of pie molds for 10, which will make homemade handpies and perogies an absolute breeze! There were such beautiful flowers that made the market smell so fresh along with the baked goods and sweets wafting on the air. I even found the cutest sunhat I ever did come across, and my partner found a gadget he had been wanting for ages but never came across! I even found the cutest crochet table and got my mom a little turtle for her desk (they are her favorite animal).

Overall it was so much fun exploring all the stalls, and it was a balance game trying to get all the food into the cart I brought with me to help carry it all! My fridge, freezer and heart are filled to the brim! And I did it all in a span of a few hours, so I still have the majority of my day left to get my work done. I am going to make it a habit to go to the market every other week, if not every week, to avoid grocery stores as much as I can.

I’m hoping someone has advice or suggestions.
I’m 4 days postpartum from a delivery of the most perfect little girl. We were discharged day 1. At that point they told me she was high risk for jaundice and to keep feeding and they’ll check day 2. I had seen the lactation consultant in hospital who told me the latch looked good.
We go home, she seems to be eating okay. Still producing colostrum but she seems satisfied enough after eating.
Day 2 and her blood draw is back. She is in phototherapy zone so we are admitted to hospital. She did seem much more sleepy that day so feeds not going as well. Some feeds were long, others short.
At the hospital obviously they push trying to breastfeed max of 20 minutes then top up with breast milk or formula. At this point I have barely anything coming with pumping so we are forced to use formula.
This is where I feel my problem starts. The bottles they give in hospital the formula comes FAST. It almost felt like she couldn’t keep up. She’s spitting up tons. She’s not eating great. Her bili levels are going up despite the phototherapy. She gets started on IV fluids at 3 days old and again they push feeding as much as possible.
My husband is now super scared. Says we should not try to force breastfeeding and just get her fed. I agree and try to pump as much as I can (getting maybe 20ml if I’m lucky). It’s not enough so more formula comes along.
She seems to start perking up yesterday afternoon so I decide we should restart the breastfeeding because ultimately this is my goal.
My milk still has not come in that great. She is no longer latching at all. She goes to the breast and just falls asleep. I’ll be lucky if she takes one suck. Obviously not enough when she needs to keep eating.
Last night I decide maybe we should not give the bottle and try to supplement a different method. I start finger feeding with a tube. She sucks well from that no issues. Still have to use formula with that as I don’t have enough supply.
It’s now day 4. I am desperate for her to latch and at least try. I’m doing all the skin to skin time we can. She just won’t take it. My supply is nowhere needs where she is.
I know I’m probably not doing the things necessary to get my supply up. I’m definitely not eating enough, not sleeping, so stressed out over this.
On top of it all I’ve been trying since the second we got admitted to see the lactation consultant again and everytime im told they are busy.
I feel like a failure of a mother already to not be able to provide for her.
They say we might be able to go home today and I feel completely unprepared to feed her without a bottle.
If anyone has any ideas or suggestions please help.

I thought I might ask here to get a different perspective than my own. I am NT, my husband has autism (but doesn't want to fully admit it to himself yet). I have misophonia, where I experience involuntary and intense anger at certain sounds, especially around eating and drinking.
His table manners leave something to be desired and trigger my misophonia. For example, he'll often chew with his mouth open, takes huge bites of food which lead to louder chewing and gulping, take sips of his drink with his mouth full, talk with his mouth full, clank the bowls/plates loudly with silverware, and scrape his teeth with the silverware. We have two young kids so it isn't really realistic to never eat together, plus we do enjoy sharing meals together for other reasons. Mealtime and just being around him any time he is eating or drinking has become this huge struggle for me because I find myself having to manage my anger constantly, and I am getting really resentful about it. I've tried to talk about this with him several times before, and it is met with a lot of defensiveness and push back, and him telling me there is nothing wrong with his table manners so he doesn't see why he should have to change them. We live in the US, I was raised by a family of European descent, but he is half Asian, so I think the habits we learned at home growing play into this as well. I know in many Asian cultures these things are normal. This isn't really about what is right and wrong to me, but just asking him to do these things for my benefit because he should theoretically want to help me feel good as a spouse, and since these are table manners done by most people in our country, it doesn't seem like an unreasonable request or like it would be as painful for him to do this for me as it is for me to listen to him continue with the status quo.
Do you have any suggestions for how I could approach him about this again that won't set off his defenses? I know asking him to make changes is harder for him than it would be for me, but I really need him work with me on this. I work on myself and trying to be less triggered, but it's not an easy thing to make my brain do. I can't just turn off the misophonia. If I could I would, and it makes me really angry at him when he won't do what seem like small things to me, like take smaller bites and chewing with his mouth closed. Any tips on how I can talk to him about this that will be more productive would be greatly appreciated.

My rabbit ate a large chunk of memory foam off a futon. We took it out but it was covered and has never been a problem in the past. He ate a decent chunk as I don’t see remnants. About the size of a square wallet. My husband and I think he ate it over the past few days. I feel like a horrible bun mommy. We have a newborn so life has been insane. He’s still eating, drinking and pooping - though his poops appear to be a little smaller than normal. He’s my baby and now I’m obviously stressed. We’ll monitor but is it possible he chewed it so finely that he’ll pass it? Has this happened to anyone? Crossing all parts that he doesn’t get stasis.

I’m hoping someone has advice or suggestions.
I’m 4 days postpartum from a delivery of the most perfect little girl. We were discharged day 1. At that point they told me she was high risk for jaundice and to keep feeding and they’ll check day 2. I had seen the lactation consultant in hospital who told me the latch looked good.
We go home, she seems to be eating okay. Still producing colostrum but she seems satisfied enough after eating.
Day 2 and her blood draw is back. She is in phototherapy zone so we are admitted to hospital. She did seem much more sleepy that day so feeds not going as well. Some feeds were long, others short.
At the hospital obviously they push trying to breastfeed max of 20 minutes then top up with breast milk or formula. At this point I have barely anything coming with pumping so we are forced to use formula.
This is where I feel my problem starts. The bottles they give in hospital the formula comes FAST. It almost felt like she couldn’t keep up. She’s spitting up tons. She’s not eating great. Her bili levels are going up despite the phototherapy. She gets started on IV fluids at 3 days old and again they push feeding as much as possible.
My husband is now super scared. Says we should not try to force breastfeeding and just get her fed. I agree and try to pump as much as I can (getting maybe 20ml if I’m lucky). It’s not enough so more formula comes along.
She seems to start perking up yesterday afternoon so I decide we should restart the breastfeeding because ultimately this is my goal.
My milk still has not come in that great. She is no longer latching at all. She goes to the breast and just falls asleep. I’ll be lucky if she takes one suck. Obviously not enough when she needs to keep eating.
Last night I decide maybe we should not give the bottle and try to supplement a different method. I start finger feeding with a tube. She sucks well from that no issues. Still have to use formula with that as I don’t have enough supply.
It’s now day 4. I am desperate for her to latch and at least try. I’m doing all the skin to skin time we can. She just won’t take it. My supply is nowhere needs where she is.
I know I’m probably not doing the things necessary to get my supply up. I’m definitely not eating enough, not sleeping, so stressed out over this.
On top of it all I’ve been trying since the second we got admitted to see the lactation consultant again and everytime im told they are busy.
I feel like a failure of a mother already to not be able to provide for her.
They say we might be able to go home today and I feel completely unprepared to feed her without a bottle.
If anyone has any ideas or suggestions please help.

I’ve been kinda bored of eating the same things over and over again. I’m always intrigued by weird food combos out there and I’m just so curious what’re some of the weirdest food combos you’ve had and either loved or hated????
my husband says that bc I use ketchup for steak, it’s weird … I’ve always done that tho, even as a kid.

It actually wasn't his fault. He was driving to a gig yesterday afternoon, in the rain, and some Boomer didn't properly check before changing lanes and hitting my husband all along the passenger side. Boomer was in a Nissan Murano that took almost no damage; our (my) Toyota Corolla took all the pain.
My husband is totally fine, just frazzled and shaken. And as soon as I knew that, I had to cry for my car.
I got it when I was 22. My first car. I leased it brand new and bought it out when the lease ended. I paid it off early in 2018 with my tax refund money plus a bunch of savings; I just wanted so badly to OWN something outright. My Corolla was my baby and I was fussy as hell about it.
Meanwhile, my husband always had hand-me-down family cars, and I think that lack of pride in ownership caused him to be hard on a car. Oh he always got the proper maintenance but the interior of his car when I met him was atrocious. Then he inherited his mom's Chevy Equinox and that became a disgusting mess, too. He just lives out of cars in a way I can't comprehend.
Last year when our son was born we agreed it made more sense for us to basically switch cars, such that whoever had the baby, had the Equinox. So I was suddenly driving that disgrace around while he took my neat and tidy Corolla to and from school and work. He was adding a shit-ton of miles to it, which I quietly resented (but that resentment is tied up in other stuff too that I won't get into). And while I begged him to please not treat the inside of my car the way he's always treated cars....to say he didn't listen is an understatement. He didn't even vacuum it out here and there just to humor me. He always insisted he didn't see what the big deal was, that the nature of his work life meant he HAD to eat sprinkled cookies in the car and HAD to spill coffee on the seats. (I'm being hyperbolic but honestly not by much)
And now, as the final insult, he was the one who drove my car last and got into what's probably going to be its final accident. It's a 2011 Corolla with 128,000 miles on it; I can't imagine the insurance company will agree to repair it. And I feel so fucking cheated. I could have easily gotten another 75,000 miles out of that car. It's a Toyota, that's what they do. And we JUST replaced his Equinox in February (with a Corolla Cross because I'm a Toyota ride or die). We could comfortably afford that car but until he started his new job in December (the one he was going to school for), we really needed the 2011 Corolla to keep doing what it did. Now if we need something new, it will be a stretch.
I'm just so so so mad and sad today. And when we both woke up just now he wanted to hold me and I feel like a mean wife but I didn't want to be touched at all. My first car, my first taste of freedom, is probably dead and I feel like he killed it.

What are the chances a cat with FeLV and showing FeLV symptoms would actually have those symptoms caused by FIP?
We have two littermates, and last month one was diagnosed with FIP. (He is being treated, and I’ve asked the admins about this as well but am still waiting for a reply so coming here too!) Our second cat, who has been sick with esinophillic granuloma complex off and on since he was 3 months old, took a sudden downturn. Less eating and play, more sleep, trying to eat the litter. Turns out he is severely anemic and FeLV+ on the snap. This is a surprise to us as the shelter had said they were FeLV negative. We’re waiting for the more definitive test to come back on both of them but it won’t be until Monday at earliest.
Our vet, who diagnosed our other cat with FIP quickly (dry neuro), does not think this is FIP. He’s on antibiotics and has been the same or slightly worse for several days now. They gave us two weeks max with him.
I’m of course looking for any hope, but the injections (and finances) have been hard on us and our other cat. My husband really does not want to treat our second cat since no one even mentioned FIP outside of us asking about it. I agree that I don’t want to add stress to his life if there’s no hope.
Still waiting for the admins to review his bloodwork, but just curious to hear from anyone with an FeLV cat and how they knew it was symptoms from FIP and not the FeLV.

I (16Male) am just now becoming an uncle, for the first time, my sister (24F) just welcomed her new baby boy; we had a horrible childhood, getting beat, mom constantly tweaking out on meth, eating cat food cause we were starving, it was really bad - suffice to say, my sister attempted to take the role of mom, or at least pretended to; she sure did that! Giving me weed & alcohol at the age of 10, doing coke openly, literally attacking me and bouncing the back of my head on concrete cause I accidentally kicked her while swinging at the age of 11, leaving me unattended as a little boy with her new fully grown (25 year old at the time) boyfriend. Screaming at me if I did anything wrong or didn’t know how to complete a task - harassed me if any of my friends seemed gay (they were not) - I’ve tried numerous times to move on & not be resentful because I’m Christian, but its incredibly hard. She married the father of her son about 2 years ago, they’ve known each other for 3 years now, in that time they have completely changed as people, they are now self proclaimed fascists (their words, not mine) & her husband is looking to join a Neo Nazi group in my state. She used to yell at me for saying r-slur, she now doesn’t care and uses the n word all the time. We used to be really close even though she treated me and my other sister like shit, she would scream at my other sister all the time - but we still had our moments, we used to drive around all the time blasting music, drinking wine and watching movies, going to target, swimming in the lakes.
It’s just disappointing, since she’s had the baby I’ve just been thinking about it constantly, almost in shock. It’s just weird knowing that I’ve already lost her so much as a friend, & now that her child is born I don’t think I’ll ever be useful to her again as a brother. Godspeed ig; what can I even do in this situation?

I (16Male) am just now becoming an uncle, for the first time, my sister (24F) just welcomed her new baby boy; we had a horrible childhood, getting beat, mom constantly tweaking out on meth, eating cat food cause we were starving, it was really bad - suffice to say, my sister attempted to take the role of mom, or at least pretended to; she sure did that! Giving me weed & alcohol at the age of 10, doing coke openly, literally attacking me and bouncing the back of my head on concrete cause I accidentally kicked her while swinging at the age of 11, leaving me unattended as a little boy with her new fully grown (25 year old at the time) boyfriend. Screaming at me if I did anything wrong or didn’t know how to complete a task - harassed me if any of my friends seemed gay (they were not) - I’ve tried numerous times to move on & not be resentful because I’m Christian, but its incredibly hard. She married the father of her son about 2 years ago, they’ve known each other for 3 years now, in that time they have completely changed as people, they are now self proclaimed fascists (their words, not mine) & her husband is looking to join a Neo Nazi group in my state. She used to yell at me for saying the R-slur, she now doesn’t care and uses the n word all the time. We used to be really close even though she treated me and my other sister like shit, she would scream at my other sister all the time - but we still had our moments, we used to drive around all the time blasting music, drinking wine and watching movies, going to target, swimming in the lakes.
It’s just disappointing, since she’s had the baby I’ve just been thinking about it constantly, almost in shock. It’s just weird knowing that I’ve already lost her so much as a friend, & now that her child is born I don’t think I’ll ever be useful to her again as a brother. Godspeed ig. But just had to get it off my chest.

Hi! My husband and I are celebrating 15 years married this year and looking for your best ideas for a nice pace to eat out. There’s so many options. The only consideration is that it can’t be a largely seafood only place- hubby is allergic and while he can be around it he just can’t eat it. While love seafood, I don’t want to leave him with limited choices. Preferably looking for somewhere that does a great steak as I know that’s what he’s going to want. Thanks!

After reading the rules of normal eating I started to pay more attention to my hunger and satiety signals. I am a 32F I eat very healthy 80% of the time and never give in on processed or fast food. I am slightly heavier that what I would like to be (I think I would feel and look better with 4-5 kg less) and I have recently tried to understand how to reduce a bit the food I eat.
After reading the book and paying close attention I realised that I am actually almost never hungry. I eat because I have to, because it’s time to or because it would be inconvenient not to (for example going out at a restaurant with friends) or even more concerning for me, if I AM hungry then I am not anymore after just a few bites.
I think this is the root cause of me being a bit overweight. I just stop being hungry after a few bites and feel ridiculous not eating the food I prepared, even at home when I sit for dinner with my husband. And so I eat an amount that I believe be “normal” and that’s it but I never understand when is enough for me. I am also worried that if I eat just those few bites until I don’t feel hunger anymore then I will be hungry again in an hour or so making my life laborious, always having to be around food.
Has anyone ever experienced this? I rarely eat until I feel uncomfortable but I definitely always eat past the sense of satiety and I realise this is not good for my weight or health.

Hi, 25F here, single child, living at home with mom and dad, and preparing for govt exams. These days, mom has been having some issues with dad about him not being supportive enough, prioritising himself, anger issues etc. Sometimes she and I discuss these incidents in absence of dad, and I try to give her my opinion and solutions (which she thinks are idealistic). We sometimes have arguments over my uptightness and her "adjusting" nature.
But as my exams are near, she is keeping these things to herself, so as to not bother me. And if by chance she says something about dad in her frustration, she starts guilt-tripping. I know she requires support and a listening ear, but she's been distancing herself from me and filling her mind with everything.
My grandparents (both sides) are not in this world. Mom doesn't want to share her and her husband's private matters with her siblings or her friends.
What can I do so that she doesn't feel this guilt, and shares her mind with me? Also how do I stop myself from being solution-oriented and just listen to her?
TLDR - Mom doesn't want to share her issues with me, doesn't have anyone else to share with, which might be eating her up. How can I encourage her to not feel guilty sharing everything with me?