Sundays Dog Food Air Dried For Small Dogs

"I've been a therapist for eleven years. I know how to stay detached — it's the first thing they teach you. But four months ago, a patient sat across from me and described my childhood bedroom. The wallpaper. The smell. My dog's name. Things I have never told anyone. And when I looked down at his intake form to find out who he was — every single page was blank." I keep a clock on the wall directly behind my patients. It's a deliberate choice — something I learned during my training. Patients watch your face for reactions, for tells, for the moment you flinch. If I need to check the time, I look past them, and they never know. It keeps the session clean. It keeps me in control. I have not felt in control since the third week of January. His name, according to the intake form my receptionist handed me, was Daniel Marsh. Forty-one years old. Self-referred. Presenting issue listed as: unresolved trauma, recurring intrusive memories. Nothing unusual. I see patients like Daniel twice a week on average — men in their forties who've spent twenty years outrunning something and finally run out of road. He was quiet in the first session. Cooperative but guarded, which is normal. He made eye contact comfortably, which is rarer than people think. He described his childhood as difficult but not extraordinary, his words, and said the memories had been intensifying over the past six months. I noted a mild dissociative quality to the way he spoke about the past — as though he were recounting something he'd watched rather than lived. I flagged it, planned to revisit it, and moved on. By the end of the fourth session, I genuinely liked him. He was thoughtful. Precise. He had a way of pausing before answering that suggested he was actually searching for the truth rather than the most acceptable version of it. I looked forward to Thursdays. The sessions ran five-thirty to six-thirty, last appointment of the day. My receptionist, Claire, leaves at six. It was just the two of us in the building by then, which I mention not because it matters, but because I've thought about it often since. The shift happened in week nine. He'd been circling something for the previous two sessions — I could feel it the way you can feel a change in air pressure before a storm. He would get close to it and then redirect, talking about his father, his sleep, the recurring image of a hallway he couldn't identify. I didn't push. You don't push. You wait. On the ninth Thursday, he sat down, folded his hands in his lap, and said: I think I'm ready to talk about the house. I told him to take his time. He described a two-story house on a residential street. Pebble-dash exterior, painted over in a yellowish cream that had gone grey at the edges. A low front wall with a gate that never fully closed. A garden that was more moss than grass. I felt a stillness move through me that I didn't immediately understand. He described the interior. A narrow hallway. Dark wood banister, second and fourth stairs creaking under weight. A kitchen that smelled permanently of something sweet — not food, he said, more like a cleaning product, or a candle that had been burning in a closed room for too long. A particular smell, he said. The kind you never forget. My mother used a lavender floor cleaner. Every Sunday morning without exception, from the time I was four years old until I left for university. I did not move. I am trained not to move. He described the upstairs landing. A linen cupboard on the left. A bathroom with a pull-cord light that took three attempts to catch. And at the end of the hallway, a child's bedroom with a single window facing the back garden and wallpaper — white, with small blue boats on it. My wallpaper. From the age of seven to the age of fifteen, when my father finally let me repaint it. My throat had gone dry. I reached for my water glass and noticed my hand was not entirely steady. He wasn't looking at me. He was looking at a point just past my shoulder, the way people do when they're pulling something up from somewhere deep. His voice was even. Measured. He continued. He described a dog. A small terrier, sandy-coloured, who slept at the foot of the bed and made a specific sound — not quite a bark, more like a low complaint — when he heard the front door open. The dog's name, he said, was Monty. I bought Monty when I was nine years old. He died the summer I turned sixteen. I have never mentioned him to a patient. I have never mentioned him in any professional context. There is no record of him anywhere connected to my name. I stopped the session. I told Daniel I wasn't feeling well — which was close enough to the truth — and apologised and rescheduled. He nodded, said he hoped I felt better, and left. Perfectly normal. Perfectly calm. I sat in my chair for a long time after he left. Then I went to the filing cabinet and pulled his folder. The intake form was blank. Not missing — blank. The sheet was there, the standard form with all its printed fields, but the lines where Claire would have typed his name, his date of birth, his contact details, his GP, his emergency contact — every line was empty. Clean white paper. I checked the appointment book. Thursday, five-thirty, D. Marsh. Claire's handwriting, in blue ink, same as every other entry. But there was no new patient registration form. No signed consent. No identification copy. Nothing we are legally required to hold before a first session. I called Claire from the office phone. I asked her what she remembered about booking Daniel Marsh. There was a pause. She said: Who? I described him. Forty-one, medium height, dark coat, always arrived exactly on time. Another pause, longer. She said: Dr. Ellison, your last patient on Thursdays for the past two months has been a Mrs. Harding. You've been running the room empty after her. I assumed you needed the wind-down time. I have no memory of Mrs. Harding. I went back through my session notes. Nine weeks of Thursday entries, all in my handwriting, all detailed, all describing sessions with Daniel Marsh. The notes are coherent and consistent. The clinical observations track across nine weeks the way real case notes do — progress, regression, small breakthroughs, the gradual approach toward the central trauma. You cannot fake that kind of continuity. I know my own handwriting. But below those notes, on the same pages, in the same pen, in handwriting that is also unmistakably mine — a second set of notes. Parallel entries. A patient named Eleanor. Initial session presenting with dissociative episodes and memory fragmentation. Experiencing intrusive recollections she cannot place. Describing in vivid detail a house she grew up in — a landing, a bedroom, wallpaper with small blue boats — to a therapist sitting across from her. Eleanor's sessions share the same dates as Daniel's. The same times. Down to the minute. I read those notes four times before I understood what I was looking at. Eleanor is not a patient I treated. Eleanor is the patient being treated. And the notes are in my handwriting because I wrote them — not from the chair behind the desk, but from the chair in front of it. I was not Daniel's therapist for nine weeks. I was never behind that desk. I was sitting across from someone, every Thursday at five-thirty, describing a house I grew up in, a dog named Monty, wallpaper with small blue boats — and somewhere in the fracture between who I am and who I became, my mind built a version of events where I was the one in control. Where I was the one holding the pen. Where I was safe on the other side of the room. There is a therapist named Daniel Marsh. I looked him up. He is licensed, forty-one years old, has a practice four streets from my office. I have no memory of making an appointment with him. I have no memory of nine weeks of sessions. I have no memory of anything that happened in that room except from the wrong side of the desk. I am staying at my sister's. I told her I'm having the flat fumigated. I needed a reason that didn't require explanation. Last night I woke at two in the morning with the smell of lavender floor cleaner so strong I had to open the window. My sister uses unscented products. She always has. I think the memories are not coming back. I think the memories were never mine to begin with. I think something in that room, across nine weeks, was put back inside me that had been buried for a very long time — and whatever Daniel Marsh is, whatever he was doing in those sessions, he knew exactly where to find it. The appointment book still has next Thursday marked. Five-thirty. D. Marsh. In my handwriting. "Thousands of people sleep with the lights on because of this channel. Join them. Nightmare Hub — link in the profile. Subscribe and never sleep soundly again." submitted by /u/Heavy-Director9769 to r/Ghoststories [link] [comments]

"I've been a therapist for eleven years. I know how to stay detached — it's the first thing they teach you. But four months ago, a patient sat across from me and described my childhood bedroom. The wallpaper. The smell. My dog's name. Things I have never told anyone. And when I looked down at his intake form to find out who he was — every single page was blank." I keep a clock on the wall directly behind my patients. It's a deliberate choice — something I learned during my training. Patients watch your face for reactions, for tells, for the moment you flinch. If I need to check the time, I look past them, and they never know. It keeps the session clean. It keeps me in control. I have not felt in control since the third week of January. His name, according to the intake form my receptionist handed me, was Daniel Marsh. Forty-one years old. Self-referred. Presenting issue listed as: unresolved trauma, recurring intrusive memories. Nothing unusual. I see patients like Daniel twice a week on average — men in their forties who've spent twenty years outrunning something and finally run out of road. He was quiet in the first session. Cooperative but guarded, which is normal. He made eye contact comfortably, which is rarer than people think. He described his childhood as difficult but not extraordinary, his words, and said the memories had been intensifying over the past six months. I noted a mild dissociative quality to the way he spoke about the past — as though he were recounting something he'd watched rather than lived. I flagged it, planned to revisit it, and moved on. By the end of the fourth session, I genuinely liked him. He was thoughtful. Precise. He had a way of pausing before answering that suggested he was actually searching for the truth rather than the most acceptable version of it. I looked forward to Thursdays. The sessions ran five-thirty to six-thirty, last appointment of the day. My receptionist, Claire, leaves at six. It was just the two of us in the building by then, which I mention not because it matters, but because I've thought about it often since. The shift happened in week nine. He'd been circling something for the previous two sessions — I could feel it the way you can feel a change in air pressure before a storm. He would get close to it and then redirect, talking about his father, his sleep, the recurring image of a hallway he couldn't identify. I didn't push. You don't push. You wait. On the ninth Thursday, he sat down, folded his hands in his lap, and said: I think I'm ready to talk about the house. I told him to take his time. He described a two-story house on a residential street. Pebble-dash exterior, painted over in a yellowish cream that had gone grey at the edges. A low front wall with a gate that never fully closed. A garden that was more moss than grass. I felt a stillness move through me that I didn't immediately understand. He described the interior. A narrow hallway. Dark wood banister, second and fourth stairs creaking under weight. A kitchen that smelled permanently of something sweet — not food, he said, more like a cleaning product, or a candle that had been burning in a closed room for too long. A particular smell, he said. The kind you never forget. My mother used a lavender floor cleaner. Every Sunday morning without exception, from the time I was four years old until I left for university. I did not move. I am trained not to move. He described the upstairs landing. A linen cupboard on the left. A bathroom with a pull-cord light that took three attempts to catch. And at the end of the hallway, a child's bedroom with a single window facing the back garden and wallpaper — white, with small blue boats on it. My wallpaper. From the age of seven to the age of fifteen, when my father finally let me repaint it. My throat had gone dry. I reached for my water glass and noticed my hand was not entirely steady. He wasn't looking at me. He was looking at a point just past my shoulder, the way people do when they're pulling something up from somewhere deep. His voice was even. Measured. He continued. He described a dog. A small terrier, sandy-coloured, who slept at the foot of the bed and made a specific sound — not quite a bark, more like a low complaint — when he heard the front door open. The dog's name, he said, was Monty. I bought Monty when I was nine years old. He died the summer I turned sixteen. I have never mentioned him to a patient. I have never mentioned him in any professional context. There is no record of him anywhere connected to my name. I stopped the session. I told Daniel I wasn't feeling well — which was close enough to the truth — and apologised and rescheduled. He nodded, said he hoped I felt better, and left. Perfectly normal. Perfectly calm. I sat in my chair for a long time after he left. Then I went to the filing cabinet and pulled his folder. The intake form was blank. Not missing — blank. The sheet was there, the standard form with all its printed fields, but the lines where Claire would have typed his name, his date of birth, his contact details, his GP, his emergency contact — every line was empty. Clean white paper. I checked the appointment book. Thursday, five-thirty, D. Marsh. Claire's handwriting, in blue ink, same as every other entry. But there was no new patient registration form. No signed consent. No identification copy. Nothing we are legally required to hold before a first session. I called Claire from the office phone. I asked her what she remembered about booking Daniel Marsh. There was a pause. She said: Who? I described him. Forty-one, medium height, dark coat, always arrived exactly on time. Another pause, longer. She said: Dr. Ellison, your last patient on Thursdays for the past two months has been a Mrs. Harding. You've been running the room empty after her. I assumed you needed the wind-down time. I have no memory of Mrs. Harding. I went back through my session notes. Nine weeks of Thursday entries, all in my handwriting, all detailed, all describing sessions with Daniel Marsh. The notes are coherent and consistent. The clinical observations track across nine weeks the way real case notes do — progress, regression, small breakthroughs, the gradual approach toward the central trauma. You cannot fake that kind of continuity. I know my own handwriting. But below those notes, on the same pages, in the same pen, in handwriting that is also unmistakably mine — a second set of notes. Parallel entries. A patient named Eleanor. Initial session presenting with dissociative episodes and memory fragmentation. Experiencing intrusive recollections she cannot place. Describing in vivid detail a house she grew up in — a landing, a bedroom, wallpaper with small blue boats — to a therapist sitting across from her. Eleanor's sessions share the same dates as Daniel's. The same times. Down to the minute. I read those notes four times before I understood what I was looking at. Eleanor is not a patient I treated. Eleanor is the patient being treated. And the notes are in my handwriting because I wrote them — not from the chair behind the desk, but from the chair in front of it. I was not Daniel's therapist for nine weeks. I was never behind that desk. I was sitting across from someone, every Thursday at five-thirty, describing a house I grew up in, a dog named Monty, wallpaper with small blue boats — and somewhere in the fracture between who I am and who I became, my mind built a version of events where I was the one in control. Where I was the one holding the pen. Where I was safe on the other side of the room. There is a therapist named Daniel Marsh. I looked him up. He is licensed, forty-one years old, has a practice four streets from my office. I have no memory of making an appointment with him. I have no memory of nine weeks of sessions. I have no memory of anything that happened in that room except from the wrong side of the desk. I am staying at my sister's. I told her I'm having the flat fumigated. I needed a reason that didn't require explanation. Last night I woke at two in the morning with the smell of lavender floor cleaner so strong I had to open the window. My sister uses unscented products. She always has. I think the memories are not coming back. I think the memories were never mine to begin with. I think something in that room, across nine weeks, was put back inside me that had been buried for a very long time — and whatever Daniel Marsh is, whatever he was doing in those sessions, he knew exactly where to find it. The appointment book still has next Thursday marked. Five-thirty. D. Marsh. In my handwriting. "Thousands of people sleep with the lights on because of this channel. Join them. Nightmare Hub — link in the profile. Subscribe and never sleep soundly again." submitted by /u/Heavy-Director9769 to r/scaryeddie [link] [comments]

"I've been a therapist for eleven years. I know how to stay detached — it's the first thing they teach you. But four months ago, a patient sat across from me and described my childhood bedroom. The wallpaper. The smell. My dog's name. Things I have never told anyone. And when I looked down at his intake form to find out who he was — every single page was blank." I keep a clock on the wall directly behind my patients. It's a deliberate choice — something I learned during my training. Patients watch your face for reactions, for tells, for the moment you flinch. If I need to check the time, I look past them, and they never know. It keeps the session clean. It keeps me in control. I have not felt in control since the third week of January. His name, according to the intake form my receptionist handed me, was Daniel Marsh. Forty-one years old. Self-referred. Presenting issue listed as: unresolved trauma, recurring intrusive memories. Nothing unusual. I see patients like Daniel twice a week on average — men in their forties who've spent twenty years outrunning something and finally run out of road. He was quiet in the first session. Cooperative but guarded, which is normal. He made eye contact comfortably, which is rarer than people think. He described his childhood as difficult but not extraordinary, his words, and said the memories had been intensifying over the past six months. I noted a mild dissociative quality to the way he spoke about the past — as though he were recounting something he'd watched rather than lived. I flagged it, planned to revisit it, and moved on. By the end of the fourth session, I genuinely liked him. He was thoughtful. Precise. He had a way of pausing before answering that suggested he was actually searching for the truth rather than the most acceptable version of it. I looked forward to Thursdays. The sessions ran five-thirty to six-thirty, last appointment of the day. My receptionist, Claire, leaves at six. It was just the two of us in the building by then, which I mention not because it matters, but because I've thought about it often since. The shift happened in week nine. He'd been circling something for the previous two sessions — I could feel it the way you can feel a change in air pressure before a storm. He would get close to it and then redirect, talking about his father, his sleep, the recurring image of a hallway he couldn't identify. I didn't push. You don't push. You wait. On the ninth Thursday, he sat down, folded his hands in his lap, and said: I think I'm ready to talk about the house. I told him to take his time. He described a two-story house on a residential street. Pebble-dash exterior, painted over in a yellowish cream that had gone grey at the edges. A low front wall with a gate that never fully closed. A garden that was more moss than grass. I felt a stillness move through me that I didn't immediately understand. He described the interior. A narrow hallway. Dark wood banister, second and fourth stairs creaking under weight. A kitchen that smelled permanently of something sweet — not food, he said, more like a cleaning product, or a candle that had been burning in a closed room for too long. A particular smell, he said. The kind you never forget. My mother used a lavender floor cleaner. Every Sunday morning without exception, from the time I was four years old until I left for university. I did not move. I am trained not to move. He described the upstairs landing. A linen cupboard on the left. A bathroom with a pull-cord light that took three attempts to catch. And at the end of the hallway, a child's bedroom with a single window facing the back garden and wallpaper — white, with small blue boats on it. My wallpaper. From the age of seven to the age of fifteen, when my father finally let me repaint it. My throat had gone dry. I reached for my water glass and noticed my hand was not entirely steady. He wasn't looking at me. He was looking at a point just past my shoulder, the way people do when they're pulling something up from somewhere deep. His voice was even. Measured. He continued. He described a dog. A small terrier, sandy-coloured, who slept at the foot of the bed and made a specific sound — not quite a bark, more like a low complaint — when he heard the front door open. The dog's name, he said, was Monty. I bought Monty when I was nine years old. He died the summer I turned sixteen. I have never mentioned him to a patient. I have never mentioned him in any professional context. There is no record of him anywhere connected to my name. I stopped the session. I told Daniel I wasn't feeling well — which was close enough to the truth — and apologised and rescheduled. He nodded, said he hoped I felt better, and left. Perfectly normal. Perfectly calm. I sat in my chair for a long time after he left. Then I went to the filing cabinet and pulled his folder. The intake form was blank. Not missing — blank. The sheet was there, the standard form with all its printed fields, but the lines where Claire would have typed his name, his date of birth, his contact details, his GP, his emergency contact — every line was empty. Clean white paper. I checked the appointment book. Thursday, five-thirty, D. Marsh. Claire's handwriting, in blue ink, same as every other entry. But there was no new patient registration form. No signed consent. No identification copy. Nothing we are legally required to hold before a first session. I called Claire from the office phone. I asked her what she remembered about booking Daniel Marsh. There was a pause. She said: Who? I described him. Forty-one, medium height, dark coat, always arrived exactly on time. Another pause, longer. She said: Dr. Ellison, your last patient on Thursdays for the past two months has been a Mrs. Harding. You've been running the room empty after her. I assumed you needed the wind-down time. I have no memory of Mrs. Harding. I went back through my session notes. Nine weeks of Thursday entries, all in my handwriting, all detailed, all describing sessions with Daniel Marsh. The notes are coherent and consistent. The clinical observations track across nine weeks the way real case notes do — progress, regression, small breakthroughs, the gradual approach toward the central trauma. You cannot fake that kind of continuity. I know my own handwriting. But below those notes, on the same pages, in the same pen, in handwriting that is also unmistakably mine — a second set of notes. Parallel entries. A patient named Eleanor. Initial session presenting with dissociative episodes and memory fragmentation. Experiencing intrusive recollections she cannot place. Describing in vivid detail a house she grew up in — a landing, a bedroom, wallpaper with small blue boats — to a therapist sitting across from her. Eleanor's sessions share the same dates as Daniel's. The same times. Down to the minute. I read those notes four times before I understood what I was looking at. Eleanor is not a patient I treated. Eleanor is the patient being treated. And the notes are in my handwriting because I wrote them — not from the chair behind the desk, but from the chair in front of it. I was not Daniel's therapist for nine weeks. I was never behind that desk. I was sitting across from someone, every Thursday at five-thirty, describing a house I grew up in, a dog named Monty, wallpaper with small blue boats — and somewhere in the fracture between who I am and who I became, my mind built a version of events where I was the one in control. Where I was the one holding the pen. Where I was safe on the other side of the room. There is a therapist named Daniel Marsh. I looked him up. He is licensed, forty-one years old, has a practice four streets from my office. I have no memory of making an appointment with him. I have no memory of nine weeks of sessions. I have no memory of anything that happened in that room except from the wrong side of the desk. I am staying at my sister's. I told her I'm having the flat fumigated. I needed a reason that didn't require explanation. Last night I woke at two in the morning with the smell of lavender floor cleaner so strong I had to open the window. My sister uses unscented products. She always has. I think the memories are not coming back. I think the memories were never mine to begin with. I think something in that room, across nine weeks, was put back inside me that had been buried for a very long time — and whatever Daniel Marsh is, whatever he was doing in those sessions, he knew exactly where to find it. The appointment book still has next Thursday marked. Five-thirty. D. Marsh. In my handwriting. "Thousands of people sleep with the lights on because of this channel. Join them. Nightmare Hub — link in the profile. Subscribe and never sleep soundly again." submitted by /u/Heavy-Director9769 to r/AmazingStories [link] [comments]

"Donald, May the 4th be with you. And the 25th." - Gov. Gavin Newsom to Trump, on Star Wars Day and the 25th Amendment. Court Of Blah The Supreme Court is jumping back into the abortion wars, four years after overturning Roe v. Wade. President Donald Trump has branded himself the “most pro-life president in history,” and for good reason, after appointing conservative justices to the Supreme Court who revoked the right to abortion in America. Even so, many anti-abortion activists now blame him for the fact that the number of procedures in the U.S. actually went up in the wake of the 2022 repeal of Roe v. Wade, largely due to medication abortions administered via safe and effective pills that can be sent through the mail. Now, the Supreme Court is set to weigh in on the availability of one of those drugs. This morning, the high court temporarily restored full access to the abortion pill mifepristone, staying a lower court ruling that mandated in-person visits to obtain the pill and blocked prescriptions over the phone or online. The Supreme Court’s brief order, signed by Justice Samuel Alito, is in place until May 11. Monday’s order isn’t all that unusual — Supreme Court justices sometimes issue administrative stays, especially in high-stakes cases like this one, while the full bench weighs in. Alito signed the order since he oversees the Fifth Circuit, whose appellate court issued Friday’s ruling blocking access to mifepristone. The last time the Fifth Circuit pulled something like this, back in 2023, the Supreme Court blocked its decision unanimously, and found that the plaintiffs in that case didn’t have “standing,” or the right to bring the case in the first place. Reproductive justice advocates applauded Monday’s temporary stay. “Even this Supreme Court can see that this 5th Circuit decision is reckless,” Alexis McGill Johnson, president and CEO of Planned Parenthood Action Fund, said in a statement Monday. “While mifepristone access returns to where it was Friday morning, the whiplash and chaos that patients and providers are navigating have already had real consequences for real peoples’ lives and futures,” she added. But Monday’s administrative stay doesn’t guarantee future access to mifepristone, one of two medicines used to administer medication abortions. Alito and Justice Clarence Thomas, arguably the two most conservative members of the Supreme Court, have issued temporary stays in past cases “regardless of their ultimate votes on the matters,” Chris Geidner, author of the Law Dork newsletter, noted. Both justices have long-held anti-abortion views and have ruled accordingly in a slew of cases, most notably the 2022 decision overturning Roe v. Wade. Another detail from Alito’s Monday order also offers a clue as to how he might rule. He tends to issue limited stays (as opposed to open-ended ones) in cases “where he doesn’t agree with the underlying claim,” Strict Scrutiny host Melissa Murray noted, citing an observation by law professor Steve Vladeck. Julia Kaye, a senior staff attorney at the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU), also highlighted the continued risk to abortion access, saying the Supreme Court’s stay is a “positive short-term development” but that “no one can rest easy” while the ability to get mifepristone “hangs in the balance.” The upshot: Mifepristone remains available nationwide, with no in-person meeting required — for now. Meanwhile On The Pod... Trump Is Blocking the Experts Who Keep Voting Machines Safe (05/04/26) Look No Further Than Crooked Media There is just too much news to cover in one weekly episode. So Lovett or Leave It has moved to a brand new studio to produce more episodes and turn those episodes around much faster. But have you seen their cool new studio space? Check it out on their YouTube channel each Wednesday and Friday. AND if you're in the LA area, check them out live — twice a week! Upcoming guests include Music icon Melissa Etheridge, Drag Race alum Bosco, Outlander star Sam Heughan, Golden Globe winner Rachel Bloom, and plenty more. Grab tickets at https://crooked.com/events! What Else? An individual was shot by the Secret Service near the Washington Monument on Monday, the agency announced. The White House was briefly locked down as authorities investigated the incident, the Associated Press reported. The Secret Service said the person fired a weapon on the National Mall after they were confronted, and that a bystander was injured. Gas prices hit an average of $4.45 over the weekend and Americans spent $125 million more on gas Friday than they did just one week earlier, according to AAA and the Wall Street Journal. A lot of people seem to be getting tired of winning — or, at least, tired of paying for it. U.S. Central Command said two American-flagged ships passed through the Strait of Hormuz today — a claim Iran’s Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps (IRGC) denied. The IRGC called the U.S.’s statements “baseless” and “outright lies.” The U.S., meanwhile, claimed that it sank six small Iranian boats. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) staff used physical force or chemical agents against detainees in at least 780 incidents across 98 ICE detention facilities during the first year of Trump’s second term, a Washington Post investigation found. Detainees targeted by ICE staff included those who were requesting adequate food, water and medical care, the report said. The Supreme Court’s ruling on the Voting Rights Act last week has sparked a flurry of GOP-led redistricting efforts across the South as Republican legislators work around the clock to redraw congressional maps and replace Black Democrats with Republicans who will back Donald Trump’s agenda. “More than a dozen House seats are in play here,” Punchbowl writes. Former New York Mayor Rudy Giuliani remains in critical condition after being hospitalized over the weekend, his spokesperson, Ted Goodman, announced. Giuliani, a longtime Trump ally, contracted pneumonia and needed a ventilator to breathe but is now breathing on his own, Goodman said. The Democratic Party’s main congressional fundraising arm is taking sides in hotly contested primaries across the country and just added eight new candidates to its “Red to Blue” program aimed at flipping Republican-held seats. The Democratic Congressional Campaign Committee’s decision to wade into these races is notable because it underscores differences between the party’s establishment and progressive wings heading into November’s midterms. What A Sponsor Is your dog a picky eater? It's surprisingly stressful. You've tried mixing things in the food, you've tried different brands, you've even sat next to them to try to make them feel calm. You tell yourself, "They'll eat when they're hungry, right?" Or maybe - just maybe - your dog knows the difference between processed brown pellets and REAL food. Sundays was founded by a veterinarian and mom, Dr. Tory Waxman, who got tired of seeing so-called "premium" dog food full of fillers and synthetics. So she designed Sundays: air-dried real food made in a human-grade kitchen using the same ingredients and care you'd use to cook for yourself and your family. Every bite of Sundays is clean and made from 100% meat & superfoods with no kibble. And the best part? You just scoop and serve. No freezer. No thawing or prep. Make the switch to Sundays. Go right now to https://sundaysfordogs.com/WAD30 and get 50% off your first order. Or, you can use code WAD30 at checkout. Light At The End... San Franciscans are taking to the streets to hunt down a treasure chest rumored to carry $10,000. The search began last Wednesday with a Reddit post saying the chest was buried somewhere in the city and included a poem with clues about its location, the New York Times reported. Baxter, a 16-year-old partaking in the treasure hunt, summed up its thrill perfectly, telling the Times: “Maybe the real treasure is the fun you accumulate along the way.” A new study discovered almost 30 “unusual planets” orbiting two stars instead of one, The Independent reported — like the planet Tatooine in Star Wars. Just in time for May the 4th (be with you), the franchise’s unofficial holiday. Politicians across the spectrum posted Star Wars-themed “May the 4th” jokes and memes today. Gov. Gavin Newsom suggested Trump should also get the 25th — referring to the constitutional amendment that allows a president to be removed. One of Texas’ biggest cities is formally recognizing transgender history for the first time after San Antonio’s city council passed a resolution designating May 4-10 as Trans History Week, The Advocate reported. Naveen Farani, a spokesperson for Equality Texas, called the proclamation “a beacon to trans people in San Antonio and across Texas” at a moment when LGBTQ+ rights are under attack across the U.S. The House of Representatives passed a bipartisan bill allowing people on the Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program (SNAP) to buy hot, prepared rotisserie chicken from the grocery store. The bill, called the Hot Rotisserie Chicken Act, eases longstanding restrictions banning people receiving SNAP benefits from purchasing hot, prepared foods and only allowing them to buy foods that can be made at home. The bill now heads to the Senate for consideration. “Law & Order: Special Victims Unit” star Mariska Hargitay’s End the Backlog campaign reached a massive milestone this month, securing commitments to enact rape kit reforms from all 50 states, Washington, D.C. and Puerto Rico. The achievement is a “testament to the power of sustained, survivor-centered advocacy,” the End The Backlog initiative, which is part of Hargitay’s Joyful Heart Foundation, said in a statement. Enjoy AF Media on Instagram: "mechanic: your alignment is off. Astrology girl: I knew it" submitted by /u/kittehgoesmeow to r/FriendsofthePod [link] [comments]

submitted by /u/becauseofrandomness to r/AskReddit [link] [comments]

Part 1 "Stray" My body trembles, my head aches, my ears ring out with a distant noise that makes me want to hurl. My eyes tingle when they're met with a light shaft peeking from behind the gap in the curtains. After I get my bearings and my senses clear up, I can finally identify the screeching noise that was grinding my ears to a pulp. It's my sister screaming. "What is she doing up this early?" I get up from my bed and rub my eyes to clear out all the fuzz. Standing on the edge of the bed, I glance over at the alarm clock. There's no helping it now, i guess i've got to just get up and go downstairs. As i reach the final step of the stairs, I see my younger sister. Her hair golden, almost angelic when the sunlight reflects of of it, face speckled with freckles that add a subtle note of imperfection to an otherwise pristine facade. She's hunched over at the kitchen table looking at me with a gaze that could kill a frail old woman. "What took you so long! I've been trying to get youd down here for live ten minutes!" She shouts at me. "Whats your problem.. I was sleeping like a baby and you woke me up! Don't you realize its Sunday!" I Shout back at her. She looks at me with a perplexed yet angry look, and responds with- "It's not Sunday It's Monday you idiot! I'm gonna be late for school because of you, It's gonna be your fault i can't hang out with my friends before class" "It's Monday?" I respond. She looks as if shes about to boil over like a overdue kettle. I look at the calendar and it all rushes into my head. I really shouldn't have drunk so much yesterday. I bolt to the fridge to grab a sandwich, and chuck it over to Eve, she catches it with her face, after which I yell at her to make sure she has everything she needs for school, while I go upstairs to change into something more presentable. I run upstairs to change as she stares at me with an annoyed expression on her face. Before heading out the door she smacks me on the back of my head with her hand. I stiffle my grunt. As the radio hums and the wind blows in through the crack of the car window, I'm thinking about all the things I need to do this week, "Get groceries, pay the bills, pay for Eve's dance lessons, fix th-..." I'm mumbling to myself. I just wish I Wasn't Alone in all this. Even thought Eve's here with me she doesn't have the same responsibilities i have. But I have to remember Dad's not here to hold my hand anymore, neither is that whore of a woman who dropped everything to run off with some rich a-hole. On top of everything I also have to deal with Eve's constant outbursts against me, It's like im the bane of her existence! What did i ever do to her to deserve this kind of treatment, I just wish she could see that im trying my best here. I wasn't meant for this life, I just turned old enough to drink last year. But I guess there's no point in worrying now, I can't blame Eve for being a moody and annoying teenager either, she's also dealing with the hole in our life that was left by our parents. She's the only thing I can still hold dear in this life, even if she treats me like garbage most of the time, she's still my world, atleast what's left of it. A sudden sound ruptures my train of thought and disturbs my focus for just a moment. The car swerves onto the pavement, my tires screeching and leaving trails of rubber on the road. I press on the brake as hard as i can, narrowly avoiding a date with the light pole. The car just sits still, half over the curb. A shock-induced silence envelopes the interior. My head feels like It's turning into sand, but Eve's screams bring me back from my state of confusion. I turn my head back to make sure nothing happened to her, I could never forgive myself if- As my head turns I can see Eve, staring, at her shirt that's now soaked in water, the bottle sitting half-empty on my dashboard. As if on schedule, my ears are blown out by her banshee screams. Insults, complaints and whatever else are hurled at me like darts, I can't do or say anything except keep apologizing to Eve. I grab her a towel from my glove box. I always thought it would come in handy someday, I have to be prepared for these sorts of things, that's what being the adult is. Right? I need to take a breath of fresh air, it feels like I almost got a heart attack. I step out of the car and rest my hands on the hood. After a moment, I circle the car checking for any damage. I don't see anything major, just some scuffs on the the bumper and worn out tires. As I'm about to check under the car, I hear something behind me. It's so faint and subtle, if It wasn't so early in the morning I wouldn't have been able to even hear it. I looked around for where the sound could be coming from. In the distance I spot a trash can. The sound gets slightly more audible with each step I take towards It. A small lump forms in my throat as I stand there staring at the lid of the trash can, I slowly pry it open and set it next to me on the ground. A foul smell of rotten food and excrement immediately pierces into my nostrils and coats them with an unbearable stench, I swallow the small pool of vomit that formed in my mouth. From amidst the piles of trash I can see a dash of brown and black fur. Nestled neatly inside is a black and brown coated dog, Its bones visible from underneath Its silk-thin skin. Its so malnourished and frail it looks as if it was done up by a drunken taxidermist. I could hear Its stomach, it churned so desperately. I reach my hands down to it without worry, even if It wanted to bite me, I don't think It could. Still, as I reached down to grab it, I found it odd that It didn't show even the slightest bit of resistance towards me. Not a whimper nor growl came from the thing. It's as if it had accepted Its fate a long time ago. I nestled the poor thing in my arms, Its head rubbed against my arm and started licking my hand. I was holding the dog as if it was a piece of fine china meant for an emperor. My sister stepped out of the car and ran over to me to ask what was going on. But I was too captivated and mesmerized by the dog, her words barely registered in my head, not until I felt her hand smacking me on the back. "Earth to Mason! What's the matter with you, get back in the car and let's go! It'll be your fault when you're arranging my funereal after Ms. Jean rips my head off for being late again.." I don't respond to her, I just turn around and show her what I'm holdin. Her eyes lock on to the dog. Inquisitively, she asks "Is that a-", "Yes, it's a dog" I interrupt her. "It's so thin." She responds. We stand there for a moment, just looking at the dog, she caresses the dog's dirty and matted pelt, not caring about the filth that cakes her hands, which is very unlike her, someone who starts screaming if even a little dirt gets underneath her nails. Eve's going to be late for school today, i'll have to explain to the teachers that It was my fault not hers. I look into the rear-view mirror, on her lap rests the dog, heaving quietly, Her soft, pale hands gliding gently across Its fur, occasionally getting stuck on rocks and other debris lodged in the dog's fur and skin. After dropping Eve off at school and after getting reprimanded by the teachers for bringing her in late, I got back in the car and drove to the vet. With the dog in my hand, i enter the building. Inside the clinic i can hear the chatter of concerned pet owners, machines beeping from incoming messages and calls, as well as receptionists being battered by angry owners who won't accept that their obese dogs aren't healthy. But something feels off. I can't shake this feeling. The other dogs. They're watching me. They twitch and subtly recoil as i walk past them, with barely audible whimpers coming from their throats. A feeling reminiscent to scraping your nails along a chalkboard covers my body from head to toe. I can't place my finger on it exactly, but something just feels.. Wrong. I'm probably just overthinking things, most likely I'm still just tense from what happened earlier. After talking with the receptionist i took a seat, patiently waiting for when it was my turn. Based on the condition of the poor dog, the receptionist told me i wouldn't have to wait for too long. So i sat there, the barely conscious dog resting on my lap, as if it was fading in and out of the world of the living. 10 minutes felt like hours when I was surrounded by all these dogs. I don't like how they look at me. It's like they're looking at me with disgust. I hate dogs, always have. The vet did a full check-up on the dog, she administered all the needed vaccines and handed me some antibiotics to take with me. Due to us living in a small town, the vet's dog shelter was not up to standard, so it couldn't be used. Due to this, i got to keep the dog. ----- Music emanates from the car radio, wind blows in through the car window. Moments like these are what i thrive for everyday, It's just me, my thoughts and the road. But this time i have a guest with me. A quiet whimper is heard from the backseat. "You deserve a nice warm bath and meal" I say to the dog. "Or well, a smaller meal at least for now, the vet told me you need to adjust to eating again after being deprived of food for so long." I really should come up with a name for the dog instead of referring to It as just a dog. "Hmm..." "How do you feel about.. Michael? Or Mac for short?" For the first time, the dog barked, although I don't know if it could even be classified as a bark as it was so weak and hoarse coming from Michael's weak vocal cords, but i'll take it as a confirmation that he likes the name. I can also have some time to myself as Eve's at a sleepover. I'm usually not too keen on her going to sleepovers or any types of gathering, but just this once I let her go over to her friends house to sleep over. I kind of owe it to her after everything that happened today. I pull over in my driveway and put the car in park. As I'm walking to my front door, i glance over at my neighbors house. Just behind the curtains, barely visible i can see a dog. It doesn't move, nor do Its eyes stray away from me. My breathing becomes slightly panicked and irregular. I can feel the hairs on my arms and neck raising, my heart starts beating faster and faster. "Badump, Badump, Badump" My throat contracts, sweat beads flow down my forehead. I quickly get to my front door and open it- Silence. I'm met with an eerie silence, it's as if past the threshold of my door time is not allowed to flow. I can hear the house shifting and the floorboards creaking under every step. A sense of relief washes over me instantly. I've never been one to have panic attacks before. I lay Michael down on the cough and grab blankets and pillows and take them up to my bedroom. There I create a makeshift dogbed for Michael. It's not much but it'll do for the time being. I head downstairs to grab Michael to wash him. As I walk over to the couch and peek over it, I can hear heavy panting. On the floor I can see michael laying on his back unable to move. I quickly rush over to him and pick him up. "Oh you poor thing, are you hurt?" The dog looks at me, panting with it's tongue out I bring him to the shower and turn on the water. He was already washed by the vet but I wanted to make sure he was fully clean. After drying myself off I carry him upstairs and lay him on his makeshift bed. He looks at me and I look at him. We lock eyes and i can see them glisten. After making sure the dog was comfortable I walked downstairs to prepare him a bowl of food and water. I hear it. That same noise. It's more audible now, I can even identify it. Scratching. It's coming from upstairs. I make my way up the stairs to go to into my bedroom. I slowly pry open the door. I look around for Michael, he should be on the bed but I can't see anything in the dark. I stumble over to put on the light on my nightstand My fingers wrap around the chain, and I pull it. *click* The light flashes and momentarily blinds me, after my eyes adjust, I scan around the room for Michael. I can't see him anywhere. Behind me I hear a heavy, wet, panting. Startled, I swing around, and from the door that is open ajar, I can see Michael, peeking behind the door, staring at me. The sound of his panting is.. I don't know how else to describe it, but viscous?. Drool is dripping from his mouth, creating a pool of saliva on the floor beneath his head. "Michael? How did you get there?" I said. The dog just sat there, drool still flowing from its mouth. "Michael?" It kept staring at me. I walked over to him. His gaze didn't budge from where I was standing earlier. I knelt down to pet him, but he didn't even react. The moon's dim light bounced off Michael's eyes, I look deep into his eyes, I didn't notice it before but, now that I look at them up close. They look awfully human. Michael's eyes kept their gaze locked straight forward, peering behind me. I turned my head to see if he saw something enticing, maybe a castaway snack or something he would consider some sort of chew toy. There was nothing there. Just my bed. When I turned back Michael was staring at me. I got a little startled but i quickly gained my composure. I decided that Michael would sleep downstairs atleast for tonight. After I set his makeshift bed downstairs and laid him on top of it for the night, I went to pour myself a glass of whiskey, I deserve it after everything that has happened today I downed it in one go, which resulted in me coughing and cringing at the bitter and throat burning sensation I probably shouldn't be drinking liquor every day if i dont want to die of liver failure. I want to make sure Eve has everything she needs so that even if something happens to me she can live a good life. I walk past michael and say, "Alright, goodnight Michael, sleep well." Michael was already sleeping at that point though. "Tough day for you, huh pup?" I said as I pet him one more time before heading upstairs. I locked my bedroom door behind me just incase Michael managed to come upstairs and enter my room, I didn't want him to come drool all over me when I slept. But to be fair, i don't think he will even be able to climb up a single step with the state he is in right now. Before going to sleep i grabbed my phone and called Eve to check on her and make sure everything was okay. "Ring, Ring, Ring." "Ring, Ring, Ring." "What do you want, idiot.." She said in a brash tone. "Ouch, harsh." I responded. "Yeah i was just checking up on you to make sure everything was alright." I could hear snickering in the background. "Yeah everything's fine, now leave me alone-" she said before she hung up on me. "Annoying little rascal." I muttered. I stumbled into my bed, too exhausted to even switch into different clothes or brush my teeth. As i'm laying here, I say. "Let's hope tomorrow is a better day." Same thing I've said every night before falling asleep. As my eyes start to close, I can see the closet door slightly open, from behind it I can see something that looks like an eye. Accompanied by a deep, heavy, viscous panting. "Huff, Huff, Huff" "Huff, Huff, "Huff" submitted by /u/EspressoDepresso12 to r/TalesFromTheCreeps [link] [comments]