おふとん

某SNSで英国のチューリップ祭に犬連れて行ったら数時間後に犬が亡くなって「健康体そのものだった、綺麗な写真が撮りたかっただけなんだ。犬は健康そのものだった。チューリップが有毒なんて知らなかった」て泣きながら訴えてる映像が流れて来たんだけどさ。多くの観葉植物は犬猫に有害だってのを→

【悲報】ヒカル、また“芸人批判”か ヒカル「タモリさんって全く面白くない」 梶原雄太「僕も正直そんなですよ」 タモリが面白いかどうかは置いといて、 よくもまあ、酒の席で芸人崩れとつるんで 芸能界に多大な功績を残してきた80歳のご老体を 侮辱するような動画を公開できたな

4月の営業日は、毎週木金土です（木曜日営業が3ヶ月ぶりに復活するよ）。営業時間は、20時～翌1時です（土曜日は翌2時まで）。 木曜は、みゆきちゃんのワンオペです（タカシ（あゆむB面）もいるかも！？）。 【拡散希望】 #広島あゆむバー

精神科医界隈には伝わるかもしれないけど、精神科単科病院の各病棟に1人はいる｢明らかに昔はヤンチャやってた風だけど今はめっちゃ優しい、人生の酸いも甘いも吸い尽くした感じのガタイのいいナースマン｣が割と好き(性的な意味ではなく)

He lived chained to a radiator in a basement for 7 years. He had never seen sunlight. The day they freed him, he walked to a window and sat there for 9 hours without moving. In February 2023, law enforcement officers executing a welfare check on a condemned property in a deteriorating neighbourhood on the outskirts of a former mill town in western Pennsylvania found something in the basement they weren't looking for. A cat. A large orange tabby male. Chained to a radiator pipe by a padlocked dog collar around his neck. The chain was fourteen inches long. Fourteen inches. For seven years. The property's previous occupant — deceased for three weeks before the welfare check — had kept the cat in the basement since approximately 2016. Neighbours knew a man lived there. No one knew about the cat. The basement had no windows. One bare bulb — burned out at the time of discovery. A bowl of crusted dry food and a bowl of green, algae-filmed water sat just within the chain's reach. The cat had lived his entire adult life in a fourteen-inch radius in total darkness. He was sitting upright when they found him. Not lying down. Sitting. The officers said that was the part that broke them first — he was sitting perfectly upright in absolute darkness like he was waiting for something. Like he had been waiting for seven years. A local veterinarian documented what seven years on a chain in a basement does to a living thing. His muscles had atrophied so severely he could barely stand. His rear legs buckled when he tried to walk — the tendons had shortened from years of inactivity, locking his joints at angles that no longer allowed full extension. He could take three steps before collapsing. His world had been fourteen inches for so long his body had forgotten how to cross a room. The collar had been put on him years ago when his neck was smaller. He had grown into it and then beyond it. The leather had embedded into his skin — the tissue had healed over the edges in two places, physically fusing the collar to his neck. Removing it required sedation and surgical cutting. The wound beneath was a complete ring of raw, infected tissue circling his throat — hairless, ulcerated, weeping. It had been infected for years. The pain had been constant for years. His claws had never been worn down by walking or scratching. They had grown in continuous spirals — curling under his paw pads and puncturing the soft tissue on the bottom of his feet. Three claws had grown entirely through the pads and emerged on the other side. He had been standing on claws piercing through his own feet. His eyes were the most severe finding. Seven years in total darkness had caused his pupils to dilate permanently to maximum. When they brought him into daylight, he convulsed. The vet shielded his eyes immediately and kept him in a dimly lit room for the first week, increasing light exposure by ten percent per day. His left eye eventually adapted. His right eye never fully recovered — the retina had deteriorated from years of zero light stimulation. He sees shadows and movement from that eye. Nothing more. He had never been touched gently. The vet tech who removed his collar was the first person to stroke his head without the preceding sound of a chain. He flinched so hard he fell off the table. The second time she touched him, he flinched. The third time, he leaned into her hand one millimetre. She said she felt it — the tiniest shift in weight — and she had to leave the room. He weighed nine pounds. He should have weighed fifteen. Recovery took four months. Physical therapy three times a week to relearn how to walk — stretching the shortened tendons, rebuilding muscles that hadn't moved in seven years. He took his first full steps across a room on day nineteen. He fell twice. He got up both times. On day twenty-three, the foster carer carried him to the living room. He had never been in a room with windows. She set him on the carpet in a square of afternoon sunlight. He froze. He stood in the sunlight and did not move for a long time. Then he walked to the window. He put his front paws on the sill. He looked outside. He sat down. He did not move for nine hours. The foster carer checked on him every thirty minutes. He was awake. He was still. He was looking at the sky, the trees, the birds, the cars, the grass. He was seeing the world for the first time at approximately eight years old. Every colour. Every movement. Every single thing that existed on the other side of the glass that had been fourteen inches and a locked basement door away from him for his entire conscious life. She said she sat on the couch behind him and watched him watch the world and cried until she couldn't see. He was adopted by a retired postal worker who lives alone in a small house with large windows in a quiet township outside the same city. The man chose him specifically because of his story. He said: "Everyone wants the easy ones. The pretty ones. The ones that look good in photos. Nobody wanted him. I know what that feels like." The man's house has seven windows. He built a wooden shelf beneath every single one. Every shelf is carpeted. Every shelf is wide enough for a large cat to lie down. He named him Seven. For the years. Seven is now approximately ten. He walks with a stiff, uneven gait. His right eye is clouded. His neck carries a permanent ring of hairless scar tissue where the collar was. His claws grow faster than normal and require trimming every two weeks — the vet thinks the growth pattern was permanently altered by years of uninterrupted development. He spends fourteen hours a day at the windows. He rotates between them — following the sun from the east side of the house in the morning to the west side in the evening. He watches everything. Birds. Rain. Snow. Passing cars. Children walking to school. He watches it all with the patient, absolute attention of something that knows what it's like to have nothing to look at. He has never once voluntarily entered a room without a window. If a door closes and he is in a room with no natural light, he cries. Not meows. A deep, low, guttural sound that the owner says vibrates through the floor. He opens the door immediately. Every time. The postal worker told a neighbour: "People ask me what's wrong with him. I tell them nothing is wrong with him. Everything was wrong with what was done to him. He's the most right thing in my house. He sits at that window and watches the world like it's the most incredible thing he's ever seen. Because it is. He didn't see it for seven years. Now he can't stop looking." "And I'll never close a curtain in this house. Not one. Not ever. He gets every window. He gets every sunrise. He gets every single thing that was taken from him. That's the deal."