jennphoenix: spiderinthecupboard: topsydead:…




I’m telling you elephants are chill motherfuckers. They fucking love being helpful. They once defended a man with heatstroke from a truck that came to rescue him. They knew he was sick, laying against a tree for shade. They were watching over him and petting him, and they threatened to charge the vehicle for coming towards him. Another person passed out, and elephants cried over her and buried her body in a traditional elephant funeral. (Piling branches on her). And were quite spooked when she got up later.

And an elephant was helping workers to put logs in holes for a wall. On one hole, the elephant absolutely refused to set the log in, despite being punished and goaded. Turns out there was a sleeping dog in the hole.

There are so many good elephants stories. They will even help zookeepers wash other elephants– literally, a zookeeper can be like “[Name 1], please wash [Name 2]” and he will go wash that elephant correctly.

Listen guys. Not only are elephants people, but they’re largely better people than us. I’m 10000% serious.

when humans go extinct i’m pretty sure elephants will be able to restore our planet’s reputation

Great. Now I want a pet elephant.






Anyone want to hear another wholesome story about my dad?

Okay so.

My dad is actually my step-dad. He and my mom got together when I was eight, and got married a few years later. I never actually call him my step-dad, because as far as I’m concerned he’s just my dad.

My bio-dad has never been in the picture. I’ve never even met him. So my formative years were spent having a very complicated relationship with the concept of fathers. I both wanted a dad and didn’t need one, because my family is fairly large and I had no shortage of grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins stepping in to help my mom out.

But I still always felt sad about not having a dad, y’know? Everyone else did. It made me feel lonely and kind of abandoned.

My favorite book when I was little was Papa Please Get the Moon for Me, by Eric Carle. If you’re unfamiliar, the plot is basically that this guy loves his child so much that he literally steals the moon from the sky when she asks. I LOVED that book, but, like…it also made me kind of sad, because I didn’t have a dad who would do that for me.

Fast forward to when I was older, and my (step)dad and my mom had my little brothers. When I was in high school, they were both really little, and one of them got his hands on my copy of Papa Please Get the Moon for Me, which I’d kept for nostalgia’s sake.

Little shit destroyed it. He was little, he didn’t really know any better yet, but I was DEVASTATED. I full-on sobbed. Sure, I could get another one, but it wouldn’t be the same, y’know?

Christmas that year, I open up my gifts, and there’s one from my dad in particular. It was kinda weird, because my parents never really specify when a Christmas gift is from one specifically; they just get all the kids gifts and only label who they’re to.

So I open it, intrigued, and y’all know what it was?

It was NOT a new copy of Papa Please Get the Moon for Me.

But it WAS a light-up model of the moon, that still to this day hangs on the wall in my living room and makes me get a little emotional every time I look at it.

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