Majsee

The Cats Meiow

[Majsee @Majsee1]

@PeopleOfTheInt It’s a great show, hits the right sci fi notes

[Majsee @Majsee1]

@PeopleOfTheInt It’s a great show

[𝕐o̴g̴ @Yoda4ever]

This is what happiness looks like..🐕🐾😍

[Sama Hoole @SamaHoole]

Dartmoor's hill ponies have grazed those commons for longer than there has been a country called England. Fewer than a thousand are left, down from six thousand a generation ago. The United Nations listed them as endangered in 2023. So, naturally, the body charged with protecting nature has decided to get rid of nine in ten of the survivors.

There is a process, obviously.

Natural England's new grazing contracts now count the ponies in the same bucket as the cattle and sheep. A commoner with a fixed quota has a choice: keep a semi-wild pony worth nothing at market, or use the slot for a lamb he can sell. Guess which one survives the spreadsheet. The rest are gathered in the autumn drifts, and with nowhere to put thousands of unhandled moorland ponies, the next stop is the abattoir.

Natural England would like it noted that it has not ordered a cull. It has merely built a machine whose only output is a cull, switched it on, and handed the bolt gun to a farmer so the fingerprints land elsewhere. Very tidy.

And now the funny part. The pony is the best tool on the entire moor for eating Molinia, the coarse purple grass strangling Dartmoor into a brown monoculture. Cattle and sheep won't touch it. The ponies hoover it down and clear the ground for the orchids, the wildflowers and the insects behind them. Remove the ponies and the moor chokes into precisely the lifeless scrubland the contract was meant to prevent.

So the conservation strategy, in full: protect the habitat by deleting the animal that maintains the habitat. A masterclass.

Better still, Natural England's own Fursdon review looked at this exact question and told them, in plain English, not to lump ponies in with cattle and not to cut pony numbers. They read it, praised it, said they fully supported it, then did the precise opposite.

Four thousand years these animals have run Dartmoor with no committee and no contract. They could be gone within one, and the people who did it will write it up as a win for nature.

[Patrick O'Donnell @patodonn]

@joancooke5 I'm seeing this with my mother. It wasn't until she went into care that I realised the toll of caring for her, dealing with my own health issues and working had taken on me. I had a complete meltdown.

[Majsee @Majsee1]

@MrPitbull07 David @DavidFajgenbaum an amazing guy, he did an interview with Stephen on @Freakonomics a while back, a very interesting podcast and great to hear of his success and an alternate way of looking at things.

[Majsee @Majsee1]

@piersmorgan He’s a handsome boy, delighted he’s been reunited with your niece

[Mr PitBull Stories @MrPitbull07]

The FBI had boxes full of serial killer confessions they couldn’t actually use.

Hours of interviews.
Detailed admissions.
Direct conversations with some of the most violent men in America.

And none of it was scientifically useful.

Then a 42-year-old psychiatric nurse walked into Quantico and changed criminal investigation forever.

Her name was Ann Burgess.

1975.

FBI agents Robert Ressler and John Douglas had spent months traveling across the country interviewing imprisoned serial killers. They believed understanding offenders could help solve future crimes.

But when Ann Burgess listened to the tapes, she immediately saw the problem.

“This isn’t research,” she told them.
“These are just stories.”

The room went silent.

“You’re asking them to talk about themselves,” she said. “But every interview is different. There’s no structure. No methodology. You can’t compare one offender to another.”

Then she asked a question nobody else in the room had thought to ask:

“Tell me about the women they killed.”

Not the killers.

The victims.

Who were they?
How old were they?
Where were they approached?
What made them vulnerable?
How did the offender gain control?

The agents were confused.

Ann Burgess explained something revolutionary:

“If you truly study the victims, you’ll understand the offender.”

At the time, Burgess was already a groundbreaking trauma researcher. In 1974, she had co-authored one of the first major studies proving rape caused lasting psychological trauma — at a time when courts barely acknowledged it.

She helped create the term “rape trauma syndrome.”

Now she brought that same scientific rigor to the FBI.

She redesigned the interviews.
Created structured questionnaires.
Introduced victimology as the foundation of profiling.
Distinguished between a killer’s “MO” and their “signature.”
Mapped escalation patterns.
Explained that sexual violence was about power and control — not desire.

Suddenly, the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit had something it had never truly possessed before:

Methodology.

And it worked.

In 1983, young boys began disappearing in Nebraska.

Using Burgess’s framework, investigators built a profile:
A young white male.
Slight build.
Someone trusted around children.
Likely connected to scouting or youth activities.
A person who kept souvenirs and detective magazines.

Police arrested John Joubert.

The profile was astonishingly accurate.

Almost overnight, criminal profiling became legitimate law enforcement science.

And yet most of the credit went elsewhere.

The public celebrated the FBI agents.
Books were written.
Movies and television series followed.

Ann Burgess became a footnote.

When Netflix released Mindhunter, they based a character on her — but changed nearly everything.

They made her a psychologist instead of a nurse.
Changed her personal life entirely.
Most viewers never even realized she was based on a real person.

Meanwhile, the real Ann Burgess kept working.

Teaching.
Publishing.
Consulting.
Testifying in court.
Training professionals around the world.

More than 150 academic publications.
Multiple landmark books.
Decades of pioneering work.

And through all of it, one truth remained:

Modern criminal profiling exists in large part because a psychiatric nurse walked into a room full of FBI agents and told them they were asking the wrong questions.

Not:
“Why did the killer do this?”

But:

“Who were the victims?”

That shift changed criminal investigation forever.

Ann Burgess is 88 years old now.

Still teaching.
Still working.
Still brilliant.

And finally receiving recognition not as a side character in someone else’s story —

But as herself.

The woman who taught the FBI how to truly understand predators by first understanding the people they harmed.

[Majsee @Majsee1]

@martylyricfm Happy Birthday Marty, she really likes you, how nice is that , best wishes

[Majsee @Majsee1]

@NiecyOKeeffe Loved him in Buffy the Vampire Slayer

[Majsee @Majsee1]

@DeniseM67887845 Congrats and very best wishes in your new wonderful career

[Majsee @Majsee1]

@OutFrontCNN @clarissaward Very sad for the people of this town, TB, Malaria and Ebola, a terrible trinity

[Majsee @Majsee1]

@rtenews Congratulations to Holly

[Majsee @Majsee1]

@Paul__Browning_ Fab pics

[Majsee @Majsee1]

@Shauns_Aviation Best of luck Shaun

[Mario Nawfal @MarioNawfal]

🇨🇩 A journalist walked inside an active Ebola ward in DRC's Mongbwalu and found a confirmed death, a sick adult, and a 5-year-old with uncontrolled nosebleeds all sharing the same confined space.

No food for patients, the families bring their own water, and the test results take so long that doctors can't even separate confirmed cases from suspected ones.

DRC has survived more Ebola outbreaks than any country on earth. The virus isn't the only killer here. The system is failing around it.

Source: NYT

[Majsee @Majsee1]

@Mick_Finnegan Congrats Mammy and Daddy and welcome Saoirse ❤️🌺😀

[Give A Shit About Nature @giveashitnature]

A bricklayer in East Yorkshire has spent 35 years putting up barn owl nest boxes on weekends. This year, the region saw 308 owlets hatch.

His name is Robert Salter. He's 56 and does bricklaying full time. In 1990, he saw a piece on the news about a man in Lincolnshire installing barn owl boxes, and decided he'd do the same. He started with five.

He now has more than 350 boxes scattered across fields, farms, outbuildings, and trees in East Yorkshire. Every June, he takes four weeks off from bricklaying and visits them with his wife Sue. Scrambling up ladders, ringing chicks, cleaning boxes, repairing the ones the weather got to. He's a licensed bird ringer for the British Trust for Ornithology.

In 2024, the region ringed 95 owlets. In 2025, the count was 308. The Barn Owl Trust says that nationally, this year was "pretty poor" for barn owl breeding, but east Yorkshire is the exception, and it's the exception because of one man with a ladder.

The barn owl population in the UK was estimated at 4,000 pairs in the mid-2000s and crashed to roughly 1,000 by the early 2010s. The species is still recovering.

Most of conservation is one person who refuses to give up.

[Julian @julianblacks_]

My neighbor passed away in August. Older man. Walter. Widower. Lived alone. We weren’t close but we were friendly in the reliable way of people who share a property line for many years. After he passed his daughter came from out of town to handle the house. I went over to introduce myself and offer help. We got to talking on his porch. She said she’d found something in his desk. A notebook. He’d kept notes on the neighborhood. Not in a strange way. In a tender one.

[Majsee @Majsee1]

@Simi_2210_ 127 Simples