i wonder if my pets have like a proper language and when i try to speak back to them im just speaking jargon
like for example my cat always speaks to me when I come home and i meow back to her and she’ll meow again & even though i don’t think twice about it to her it’s probably a situation where it’s like
her, meowing: “im glad you’re home”
me, meowing back: “tax benefits”
her, meowing: “why do u always do this”
me
cats actually have a human-specific language. cats don’t often meow at each other and seem to use subvocal communications that humans can’t hear to chat cat-to-cat. however, cats seem to use what humans would call “shout-until-you’re-understood” to speak to humans. so basically, it’s more like:
“I’M GLAD YOU’RE HOME!”
“tax benefits”
“NO, I’M GLAD YOU ARE HOME”
“waffle iron”
“IT’S OKAY. I LOVE YOU TOO, MY DUMB HUMAN”
The domestic house cat’s wild ancestors have a much harsher voice, too. The going theory is that early cats mimicked human infants which tripped humans’ nurturing instincts, and then selective breeding did the rest.
We make a big deal over how dogs have developed the ability to understand human expressions and tones (and let’s be fair, that is in fact awesome), but cats are possibly the only species that has changed their vocal language to try to communicate with us.
what I love about this post (apart from cats because cats are ADORABLE) is the assumption that cats have words for tax benefits.
Me, combing through my cat’s fur, looking for fleas the medication didn’t manage to kill: “Do you realize what I’m doing for you? I’m grooming you. I am plucking insects out of your fur. It’s an ancient tradition among my people and is just something you’re going to have to deal with since you let monkeys domesticate you. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Batman’s whole basis is the idea of scaring criminals, right?
well, sure, outright intimidation through brute force works for that.
But the whole reason a bat was chosen is that the average person doesn’t understand how cute and cool they are, and finds them creepy and gross.
So let’s play that up. A Batman who uses his training in escape artistry, stage magic, and contortionism to move in ways people think humans shouldn’t be able to move. A Batman who reacts to things that he shouldn’t be able to (because his suit is wired with sensors and Alfred is monitoring things through hacked security feeds). A Batman who has a Slasher Smile.
Give me a Batman who, for the villains, seems like a cryptid. An urban legend on the level of creepypasta, some half-glimpsed shadow who, instead of being scary because of his muscles, is scary because holy shit what was that? What just happened? I’m outta here, man!
Give me a Batman where his battles with characters like Scarecrow and the Joker seem more like one of those crossover films where two horror movie monsters fight it out.
reblog, this had exactly one thousand notes. I was not expecting that, so i feel i should specify in regards to Robin:
I mean a Robin who is unsettling precisely because of people having the reaction of what the fuck is this bright and cheery child doing hanging around with an escapee from the SCP Foundation?
I mean a Robin who is a little too bright and cheery, maybe. And you start to wonder amidst all the smiles and quips, why exactly this particular “robin red-breast” has that shade of red on their chest. Why the red looks a little more brownish, why this child smells coppery when they lean in close to tell a joke. Are you sure they’re a child? Are you sure there’s just one of them?
While you’re wondering this, back at the Batcave, Bruce and the like six different kids who act as Robins are having a laugh and reapplying the fake blood Alfred bought in near-bulk quantities at the Gotham Party City during the last After-Halloween sale.
I am all in for fanged Batman crawling head downward down a blackened wall, light reflecting off of lenses designed to mimic the tapetum lucidum, filling criminals’ ears with a near-ultrasound shrieking.
I’d particularly like it if the movie were shot like a horror movie, so that even the audience doesn’t see Batman properly until at least half an hour in. Then we see Bruce Wayne at some Society shindig, being an affable yachting 1% broseph douchebag, until there’s a cry for help. He ducks into a stairwell, loses the blazer and loafers, and then slips out a tiny window with double-jointed knees and shoulders.
And this is how The End is stopped. Not by the gods or goddesses, the other races than man, no. It is Tumblr. As a mass running after a now confused and tail tucking Fenrir, whining softly as the crowd chants “PUPPER! PUPPER! PUPPER!”
Better yet: Fenrir escapes his chains and lopes forward to destroy the earth, and is met by a crowd of people. An army, Fenrir thinks, and bares his teeth in a ferocious snarl and charges toward them.
They cheer.
Wait … cheer?
Fenrir slows, confused. He smells no fear, senses no rage. This is … a very strange army.
The first hand—weaponless!—reaches for him; he tenses, ready to tear the offending limb to shreds, and lets out a high little yippy whine when it pats him about the ears.
Immediately the noise is reproduced by some four or five of the nearest humans; he smells excitement; more hands are patting him.
It’s nice.
The humans crowd around him, patting him and scritching him and shuffling around to give others a chance. Voices coo, and make puppy noises, and someone catches just the right spot and he cocks his leg and scratches himself, drawing a multitude of oohs and ahhs and cheers and squees.
At some point, his hunger awakens at the scent of burnt flesh; a human has brought him what he later learns is a hot dog; he swallows it in one bite, to more cheering, and looks around hopefully for more.
It is not long before more is bought: steaks and Big Macs and bacon; it seems like much of the group has brought him a snack of some kind and was hoping for a chance to give it to him.
The End of the World is supposed to be at hand, but Fenrir does not care. His hunger sated, his battle-lust swept away by a tide of gently petting hands, he rolls over, careful not to crush his many companions, and takes a nap.
“Who’s a good boy?” they ask him, over and over.
Is this some psychological warfare, he wonders, designed to undermine his confidence and remind him that he is nothing more than a monster who needs to be chained?
“Who’s a good boy, huh, huh?” “Who’s my good boy?” “
And then one of them answers the question for him.
“You are!”
‘Me?’ he thinks. But if there was any doubt, she confirms it.
“You are, yes you are.”
Fenrir’s tongue hangs out of his mouth as he grins. ‘I’m a good boy!’
This would work. Fenrir was betrayed by gods that he trusted; they feared his strength and tricked him into accepting being bound because he trusted Tyr, his friend. (Loki was not directly involved in selling out his own son; usually Loki is involved any time someone gets tricked by the Aesir, but it’s notable that he was not, here.) The deal was that Tyr would put his arm in Fenrir’s mouth to prove that the gods were acting in good faith when they tied Fenrir up to “let him prove he could break the chain”; when he couldn’t break the chain, the gods refused to free him, and Fenrir bit Tyr’s arm off, because that was the deal.
So Fenrir has a serious rageboner going on against the Aesir and all of creation; that’s why he wants to eat the sun and end existence. A huge number of humans validating him, praising him, petting him and giving him yummy treats might actually convince him that, while the Aesir are still assholes and would deserve it if he ate them, he should not eat the sun because Midgardians are totally cool and give him petties.
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