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(Patch): It’s a special time to be a fan of this alcoholic, washed-up actor who’s also an anthropomorphic horse. With 5 seasons under his belt (saddle?) Bojack Horseman’s show is in the middle of its sixth, and final, season. 8 episodes arrived in late October 2019, with the final ones coming on January 31st, 2020.

I have to confess to being a bad furry reviewer, because I only got half way into the first season before I heard it got really good. I got too distracted to keep up and it’s been bugging me to watch everything. It’s not just for enjoyment — If I had hooves, I’d be able to kick myself extra hard for missing an interview opportunity with show creator Raphael Bob-Waksberg. He asked in 2015 when I interviewed Adam Conover, show cast member (and his former roommate), but I was too busy covering other furry stuff to reply in a timely way.

Which reminds me that the show designer Lisa Hanawalt‘s spinoff show, Tuca & Bertie, had a single season this year. It was canceled to fan dismay. This would be a good time to ask her what upcoming projects she may have — let’s see if her agent gets back to me. I can pay in carrots!

BoJack Horseman — a review by Candy

Photo: Exteenaw

Season Six has Princess Carolyn adopting a porcupine baby, which she handles with oven mitts, while Todd takes on the day care. It’s an adorable sight gag.

I’m new to the furry scene, but this hilarious Netflix series totally reminds me of it when it features both humans and animal-like personalities, and incorporates animal traits into each of their characters. For example: Princess Carolyn is one of my favorite characters, and one of her tag lines is: “Oh Fish!” when something goes wrong. The show is full of a bunch of little clever puns like that.

I was recently introduced to the world of Furry by Patch, so I might be missing the mark some. But what I do know is that taking on a Fursona is allowing people to be more of themselves, and some of us identify with cats or dogs or squids or  birds or whatever more than 100% human all the time. Sometimes it’s nice to step into a different personality/animality? Just to show how you really feel or just to let things go. I’m not sure in all honesty. I personally enjoy costuming for the same reason, but I change costumes a lot. It’s super fun and stress relieving to be someone/something else even if it’s for a day a week or a few hours.

BoJack Horseman definitely isn’t for everyone, it’s very sarcastic and 18+, but if you like cartoons and anthropomorphic creatures, it’s definitely a show to check out. It deals with a lot of adult issues like relationships, substance abuse, self-worth, depression, work, sex, death and more. It’s not a show made by furries (as far as we know) but some of the themes cross over.

That’s why I wrote this for DogPatchPress, because there are a lot of cross-overs within “mainstream”  culture, even though a lot of furries feel afraid to tell people that that’s what they’re into. I don’t totally understand why, but I think people can be ashamed about some of these issues, with a huge stigma in popular culture about people who want to have multiple personalities/fursonas. Those can help to personify unspoken things that are otherwise unexpressed, in a sort of therapeutic way. But we don’t always have to be totally serious about everything all the time! Sometimes it’s just about having fun as your “other self”.

BoJack reminded me of the furry community not only because of the art and acting, but also because it deals with how people see themselves. And how empowering it can be to truly just be yourself/do what you feel like/not give a fuck about whatever other people think or say about it.

< 3, Candy

Like the article? These take hard work. For more free furry news, please follow on Twitter or support not-for-profit Dogpatch Press on Patreon.

for all things Dragget Show -- www.draggetshow.com support us on Patreon! -- www.patreon.com/thedraggetshow all of our audio podcasts at @the-dragget-show You can also find us on iTunes & wherever you find podcasts! Dragget Show telegram chat: telegram.me/draggetshow #225 - Woke Pimp - w/ Boozy Badger & Chris Da Comedy Bunny - for all things Dragget Show -- www.draggetshow.co…

胖尾巴輕晨食 的logo

著名平價毛毛早餐店「胖尾巴」驚傳歇業！

今日(9)晚上，「胖尾巴輕晨食」官方粉絲團貼文表示：11月底店長出意外導致肩骨開刀需休養四個月，也剛好面臨租約到期，所以經過一番天人交戰後，決定將胖尾巴結束營業。

「胖尾巴輕晨食」是一間位於高雄的早餐店，從店名到室內擺設都蘊藏不少獸迷元素，網路上也積極與獸迷互動交流，也不時會有毛毛造訪用餐，是在獸圈裡面，相當著名的一家早餐店。

胖尾巴內部裝潢（節錄自毛毛大百科）

對於這家頗有口碑的毛毛餐館突然停止營業，許多獸迷表達出滿滿的不捨。 隨著胖尾巴的歇業，原定在12月推出的第二波吊飾，也恐怕隨著胖尾巴的歇業而成為永遠無法取得的逸品。

胖尾巴於貼文放的照片

「胖尾巴輕晨食」官方粉絲團貼文於最後寫道：「再次感謝大家對於胖尾巴的支持與鼓勵胖尾巴就留在2019不過去了（揮手」
真切的字字句句，更是讓許多獸心痛不已。

Even though I did a couple of panels, a fursuit dance and hit the Artist Alley and Dealers Den a few times I want to focus on what is to me are the 2 most important events of the final day of any MFF. The Fursuit Games. What can I say? They make me laugh, […]

I forgot to mention from my previous report what was not only a surprise and something to look forward to was the following: Coupons. Officially they call them “Tickets” 1 is for a FREE Tee Shirt, which I will show off later and the other was for brunch. In addition, there were tickets available for […]

Yesterday was my 1st day at MFF this year and it started off with some confusion. You see, this year I decided to be a Sponsor – I knew I’d get some benefits but who knew it was going to start off with a lot of confusion. First I was sent in one direction, then […]

TRD heads to the annual Sunset Beach Bonfire to celebrate Summer and create memories. SEE MORE AT: http://www.TheRaccoonsDen.com FACEBOOK: http://www.Facebook.com/TheRaccoonsDen TWITTER: http://www.Twitter.com/TheRaccoonsDen FURAFFINITY: http://www.FurAffinity.net/user/TheRaccoonsDen INSTAGRAM: http://www.Instagram.com/TheRaccoonsDen #TRDs8 #BeachBonfire #Furmeet

Presented annually by the Hollywood Chapter of ASIFA (the International Animated Film Society), the Annie Awards are considered by many to the the Oscars of animation — and often enough, a vital clue as to who is likely in the running for Academy Awards from this year. Recently, the nominees for the Annie Awards of 2019 were announced. Surprising no one, Disney dominated in several categories, most especially in Best Feature Film. Frozen 2 and Toy Story 4 were both on that list, along with Missing Link, How To Train Your Dragon: The Hidden World, and Klaus. Missing Link did surprise many, matching Frozen 2 at 8 overall nominations each. Over in the TV categories, notable furry nominees included Bojack Horseman, Disney Mickey Mouse, Rise of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and a pleasant surprise: Tuca & Bertie in several categories. Visit the official Annie Awards web site to find out more. The Awards will be presented at a ceremony live from UCLA on January 25th, 2020.

image c. 2019 Netflix

And the last of the missing episodes. As always thank you for your patience and thank you all for listening! Episode 74 - Belated Shark the 5th: The lastest of the sharks

Almost there, one more after this and you have hours to enjoy! Episode 73 - Belated shark 4: The other three don't count

And yet more, only a couple more and we are caught up! Episode 72 - Belated Shark the third of the sharkington fortune

More belated editings for you all to enjoy Episode 71 - Belated shark 2: Electric boogaloo

Another episode of UnFurled uploaded somewhat late. But here ya go Episode 70 - Belated Shark the first

Photo credit to Ryker Husky from his Orange County ALS Walk gallery

GUEST POST BY JOE GORIA (JOE G. BEAR)

Joe Bear in suit

As a young kid growing up in 1970’s Los Angeles, I was always fascinated by seeing costumed performers at events like circuses, or Disneyland and the now defunct Hanna-Barbera’s Marineland in Palos Verdes, CA. To see tall cartoon characters come to life as Baloo, Yogi Bear, and Scooby Doo let me escape into a virtual fantasy life of myself living in a world alongside Anthropomorphic Animals.

Though I grew up and went to college, graduated and attended grad school — and recently celebrated 19 years employed for a major telecommunications company with a Pension and 401k — I’m still that kid that refused to grow up. The ‘Hooman’ in me was not enough. I wanted to be my own ‘Bear.’ It led to my amazement that there’s a fan base just for this.

I discovered ‘The Furry Fandom’ in late 2013 by another Furry who had a German Shepherd fursuit stored in the trunk of his ol’ jalopy. His name was ‘Kaz,’ and he was picking me up at San Diego’s Santa Fe train station. When he popped open his trunk to put my bags in, I noticed his fursuit and asked him “is that a dog costume?”  I thought he was working at an amusement park or something. Instead he was a Furry, and I got my 15 minute crash course in ‘The Fandom’.

I didn’t attend my first Furry Convention until June, 2015: ‘Califur’ in Irvine, CA. I was with two friends who were young enough to be my own kids. It was an experience to watch Furries parade around The Irvine Marriott — but I couldn’t make much sense out of it, and I did feel somewhat out of my comfort zone.

That first ‘Califur’ is where I met Tony Barrett, known as ‘Dogbomb,’ with his version of a German Shepherd fursuit. He was very friendly and we chatted for a few minutes. I found out he was a local Orange County resident and active in the Fandom. He was friends with someone I knew early on named ‘Teh’ or ‘Desoto’ who was a Shep too. I knew ‘Desoto’ a lot longer than ‘Dogbomb’, but in retrospect I wished I had more time to get to know Tony. That is a regret I can’t correct.

Ten months later, in April, 2016 — I got an invitation from another Furry friend named ‘Toad’, who lived in Atlanta. I could room with him ‘for free’ at Furry Weekend Atlanta 2016 (The theme was ‘Camp Furry Weekend’), at the Marriott Marquis Atlanta. I bought my United Airlines ticket and flew out. What a change FWA was in comparison to ‘Califur’ 2015. That second convention is what got me SOLD into ‘The Fandom’.

Two years later, after careful thought and consideration (and the sudden death of my Mom in July, 2018) — I decided to commission my own Grizzly Bear fursuit. It would be made by a close friend and incredible fursuit maker named ‘Eddie,’ from ‘Builder Bear Studios’ near Easley, South Carolina. This 52 years old ‘Greymuzzle’ was finally going to ‘Suit Up’ as in The Foxes and Peppers song.

Foxes and Peppers – Suit Up. @foxamoore @peppercoyote — Videos daily, PM to add yours. #Furrymusic #furry #furries https://t.co/wWlAw3iyMI

— Furry Jukebox (@FurryJukebox) November 28, 2019

On May 9th, Joe Bear debuted at Furry Weekend Atlanta 2019 after Opening Ceremonies. I was amazed at the quality and love Eddie put into making my ‘Fursona’ into a real awesome looking Californian Grizzly Bear with glasses and a moving jaw. I had a lot of fun being out on the multi-con spaces that make FWA my favorite furry con. But I had thoughts – I blurted out ‘This Is Great!!’ but what’s next? I had NO prior costuming experience, and I felt like a lumbering fur rug walking the Marriott carpet with little emotion.

I knew there was something ELSE that I could do to make a difference, that would satisfy my urge and contribute to the common good. Furry Conventions are great, but it’s just a weekend long fur-block party for the attendees. However, the con does so much good too. Our FWA con fees do help those in need, as these cons do lovingly give back in dividends like their support for The Conservators’ Center In North Carolina (In 2018 alone, FWA attendees donated $50,000 for their charity). That made me feel satisfied that ‘The Fandom’ made it happen. But, I wanted to do more – to get more involved personally.

On the night of my fursuit unboxing at FWA 2019, Eddie Bear looked me in the eye and said “You’re bound to do great things, Joe”. I was surprised to hear that remark. He saw something in me that maybe I wasn’t seeing or realizing at that moment — that maybe something good would come out of getting my fursuit, two years after getting my first AARP card? Well, Eddie’s remark was ‘Spot On’.

My path led back to Tony Barrett ‘Dogbomb’, who was a strong athletic runner and participated in several Los Angeles Marathons. In March 2018, Tony’s shocking diagnosis of Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis (ALS) led to an amazing outpouring of support from Furries near and far, including myself. In November 2018, Furries donated in large numbers to ‘Team Tony’ for The 2018 ALS Walk. The National ALS Association noticed the surge and appreciated the support. Sadly, ALS is a progressive neuromuscular disease with a short life expectancy rate. Tony Barrett passed away on April 5th, 2019 — and we all changed our social media icons to his signature colorful Lei in his honor.

At FWA 2019, I hung out with a friend of mine and Tony’s named ‘Whiskey Foxtrot.’ He was wearing the 2018 ALS Walk shirt at a panel we attended. I promised to Whiskey that I was determined to get involved for The 2019 ALS Walk. One week after FWA & BLFC, I started to get my friends, family and my co-workers involved to support my page for ‘Team Tony’ and the upcoming walk.

Joe G. Bear is a SoCal fur who is helping to raise funds to find a cure for ALS in memory of @dogbomb1. There's a walk coming up November 9 in Irvine. Want to help? Here's his fundraising page for it. https://t.co/C4T43T12j7 pic.twitter.com/YjIUzqHCDs

— Dogpatch Press (@DogpatchPress) October 1, 2019

My co-workers knew I was a Furry, and supported me generously. I appreciated a friend of mine and furry musician, Runtt Wah, and his band of collective fursuiter musicians called “WE ARE ONE” for creating a beautiful song in honor of Dogbomb, called “With You I Can Run Forever”. My 2019 ALS Walk fundraising goal was $500, but I ended up with $850!!

I’ve never been involved in a charity walk before, let alone in fursuit. The 2019 ALS Walk in Irvine, CA on Saturday, November 9th was my first charity walk, and ‘The OC Great Park’ in Irvine is a great venue. It was an AMAZING experience to be part of an event to honor one of our own, with 75 Furries, alongside many families and friends of those who were honoring a loved one and/or currently suffering from ALS. I finally realized the positive benefit of being a Fursuiter — as kids and adults alike were coming up, asking for pictures or for a hug. It was an emotional experience, something I will never forget.

I feel that using my fursuit for charity events is my way to support others, and I’m looking forward to participating in 2020 and beyond. I’m hoping to participate in a charity event in San Diego come mid-December — walking in The North Park Holiday Parade with a local charity group — along with future events including supporting The ALS Association of Orange County. 

Tony Barrett wrote a heartfelt letter that was read by our friend ‘Zarafa Giraffe’ before The 2018 ALS Walk. It’s something I take to heart and which I honor:

“I’ve had an amazing life, and I’m truly sorry that it’s coming to an early close. The saving grace is that get to do something positive before I go and that I get to say a proper goodbye to all my friends. I am truly blessed to be surrounded by such wonderful folks, and I hope you take this moment and carry it forward — Be kind to strangers, help those in need, have a smile and a good word for everyone. Tell your friends and family that you love them at every opportunity. There will come a day when no one has to suffer from ALS, and you are making that future a reality. I am proud and honored to be a part of such an amazing group, and I love you all very much.”

I’m truly grateful to be part of a fandom that gives back to others, and this Bear hopes to grow in that journey by honoring Tony’s legacy and living up to his message. — (Joe G. Bear)

Thanks to Joe for sending this guest article, and to Dogbomb’s friends and supporters.

MORE ABOUT DOGBOMB’S IMPACT: dogpatch.press/tag/dogbomb

Last June, Dogbomb’s friend Trip Collie announced a tribute book with stories and art in memory of Dogbomb. Midwest Collie organized it with help from Trip, and it was planned to be over 120 pages with submissions from over 200 artists, with all proceeds going to benefit the ALSAOCC. It’s ready!

Finally done! The work of @midwestcollie start this is complete. All of the artists, and other people involved to make this book happen are absolutely amazing! The pictures do not do it justice. It starts to ship after the holidays, and some will be available for mff..thank you.. pic.twitter.com/Mi6yo9eJF2

— Paw to Press @ Furpoc (@Paw_To_Press) November 28, 2019

Went suiting at Mutt Lynch’s Bar in Newport Beach, one of @dogbomb1’s favorite hangouts. Bouncer wouldn’t let us in because it was too crowded. 300 customers’ voices chanted “LET THEM IN! LET THEM IN!” The bouncer relented, & 3 of us went in. Joyful chaos ensued.: Joe G.Bear pic.twitter.com/hH6KXer64r

— Zarafa (@Zarafagiraffe) November 10, 2019

WhiteClaw previously submitted Why furries should care about politics in 2018.

Dictionary.com

Dogpiling

Most of us on the internet have probably heard of and witnessed dogpiling. Some of us have even been unlucky enough to be on the receiving end. But nearly everyone will deny having taken part in it.

Even people in the middle of dogpiling will resist the label. According to them, they are: critiquing, complaining, offering their opinion, standing up for themselves and/or others, responding, calling out — and any other number of words and terms that can be used to describe their actions. 

But never are they dogpiling.

So, what is this strange act that seems to be everywhere, but committed by no one? To answer that question, we have to start at the beginning.

The Cycle Begins: Something “Bad”

With very few exceptions the cycle starts the same way. Someone, somewhere, does something “bad.”

Now I say “bad” because the range of events that can kick off the cycle is so broad, that one word is poorly equipped to describe them all. 

Within the spectrum of events there are: making an honest mistake or slip up, wording something poorly, having a bad take, promoting an idea or opinion that is polarizing, promoting an idea or opinion that is actively harmful, being a bigot, or committing acts that are dangerously close to or are in fact illegal.

Chat with MR

Pretty much any event that begins the cycle can be slotted somewhere into the above list. But the truth is that the act or event that begins the process often doesn’t matter in a way that significantly affects what happens next. And what happens next is, invariably…

The Cycle Continues: The Callout

Now there have been countless articles, essays, and thinkpieces that have explored the topic of callouts and cancel culture, and honestly, I’m not here to rehash. Callouts, like most things are neither all good nor all bad.

It is worth mentioning a few things, however.

Whatever the “bad” thing that kicked off the cycle, the internet is a pretty big, chaotic place where things can be and often are lost in the shuffle. Even within a relatively smaller community such as the furry fandom, it’s impossible to keep track of all the events, discussions, and drama happening at any given moment.

But within the fandom (and really the internet in general), there are online accounts who, more or less, exist solely to post and signal boost callouts. Now I won’t name names, but many of you know the type. 

They typically have hundreds to thousands of followers and usually gain more with each callout post. They love internet fights and have a seemingly endless amount of time to engage in them. And their big go-to move, especially on Twitter, is the “quote retweet” to ensure every one of their followers has a chance to see not only how clever, woke, and perfect their response is, but also the account of the person that dared to offend them.

Now I said I wasn’t going to rehash the callout/cancel culture debate, and I honestly don’t think all call outs are bad. Some I consider almost a public service. 

Yes, I would like to know if this person whose work I enjoy is actually a racist, or abuses women, or hates trans people. Because whether or not I still enjoy their work (which is an entirely other topic about if it’s possible to separate art from an artist and whether you should even bother trying to), I don’t want to support that person. Not with my money, not with exposure… and probably not with my appreciation of their work, either.

So good can come from callouts. But, one of my favorite articles on this topic, titled “We Can’t Fix The Internet” has the following lines:

“It isn’t advocacy, it isn’t activism, it’s pure performance. It’s fundamentally the equivalent of saying “you’re in my hopes and prayers,” after a national tragedy.”

Yes, the town gossip can be an invaluable source of information when you need it. But they aren’t doing it for you. They’re doing it for themselves. So, make of that what you will.

@speaksangie did nice work here. Callouts on their own fall into "the thrill of empty catharsis and spectacle", they can't substitute for deep investigation. Of course there's a difference between "performative wokeness vs de-platforming of harm" as a commenter says. 1/ https://t.co/2aS6JY7lAD

— Dogpatch Press (@DogpatchPress) November 11, 2019

The Cycle 3: This Time It’s Personal — The Dogpile

Now it’s tempting to blame the callout accounts for what comes next, and certainly some of their tactics are designed to elicit a specific response. But the cycle is not a coordinated, planned event. In fact, it’s often very reactionary and spur of the moment. 

And while “raids” conducted by forums and sub-communities do result in dogpiling, there is one very important difference. In the cycle, the members of the dogpile don’t know about each other.

Side A: The Attackers

Okay that’s not entirely true. It’s not like each person in a dogpile is sealed off in a bubble. But members of Side A do tend to suffer from tunnel vision.

In fact, at this point, the word “dogpile” seems like an inappropriate metaphor for what’s happening. A better visual description would be a wolf pack biting at and tearing apart its victim. Each wolf is definitely aware of the others, but their main concern is getting in there, and biting off a piece for themselves.

And that’s why members of the dogpile (or wolf pack, or whatever you want to call it), don’t see themselves as a group. At least not at this stage of events. Each person views themselves as unique. In fact, many view themselves as the leader of a silent army. They are the ones speaking up and championing for those who can’t defend themselves.

Unfortunately, many of the people they’re “leading” are doing the exact same thing.

This is why it’s impossible to engage with a dogpile. There’s virtually no communication between its members. Which brings us to…

Side B: The… Bictim(?)

To the victim of the dogpile, the attack is not one of several individuals, but a single, solitary mass of hate directed right at them. Because Side A has little to no communication, many of its members will repeat the same words or phrases. To the person on the receiving end, this feels like a coordinated effort, where the attackers have rallied behind a very specific interpretation or criticism of events.

(It could take another article to list all the ways in which interpretations can be out of context, distorted by emotion, misstated with crude literalism about figurative meaning, mischaracterized in bad faith, or otherwise twisted and cooked-up to hurt.)

Amplifying makes the attackers feel more justified and their grievance more real. But the reality is that the repetition of certain words or phrases is a symptom of their division, rather than their unity. It’s also the result of a single person receiving several comments in a very short amount of time. After a while, the entire thing starts to blur and run together. The brain focuses on what’s repeated.

Now if the victim tries to call out people for dogpiling, each person will claim they’re independently offering criticism… which may be true.  And the victim can try to respond with a nuanced explanation that is tailored to each and every person coming after them. (It becomes orders of complexity harder the more twisted the accusations are from sources playing telephone-game from a root cause.)

But… Individual responses to an onslaught is a ridiculous thing to expect anyone to do. 

Except that’s exactly what the people on Side A want. Remember that Side A doesn’t see themselves as a group, they see themselves as individuals. So, because they have individual criticisms, they expect individual responses. 

Which is why what Side B does next never, ever works.

The Cycle 2.0: The Public Apology

The section titles I’ve been using here have mostly been jokes, but there is a sort of 2.0 or next phase element to this part of the cycle. See, Side B has been drowning in a deluge of negative comments and criticism, and it’s not feasible for them to address everyone individually. So, they pretty much have two options.

Option 1: Run. 

Now, most people don’t go with this tactic because it usually involves abandoning your online accounts. It’s also not a great look because there’s a mindset that only the guilty run. (It isn’t true, but it is the first conclusion most people jump to.)

Option 2: The public apology. (The more popular of the two.)

This is where Side B attempts to explain themselves, apologizes for their actions, and seeks forgiveness. The statement can’t address every criticism that’s been lobbed at them, so it typically goes for a more general, “I messed up, I’m so sorry, please forgive me.”

Some are short, some are long, and some spend a little too much time trying to explain or rationalize their actions. But it’s a typical reaction that most people at the center of a dogpile are going to try and save face at least a little. What matters is what the person does next and how they act going forward when —

Oh wait, never mind, no it doesn’t. Because this never works. In fact, this is where the cycle begins its 2.0 phase, and a new set of dogpiling occurs in response to the public apology. The statement is criticized for being cookie cutter, insincere, and just all around not good enough.

And at this phase of the cycle, it’s tempting to write the remaining members of Side A off as trolls, and there are certainly a few of them who are just there to cause damage. But the amount of anger and rage some of these people exhibit can make them seem like trolls, when in reality, they’re just really, really mad. 

Unfortunately, there’s not a great way to tell the difference.

For a long time I have given opinions that if a callout is used it should come with higher goals for longer term effect. Exposing while reporting or organizing has a place, but aim for a "high value target". Just attacking, making it a sport and chasing clout sucks. 3/

— Dogpatch Press (@DogpatchPress) November 11, 2019

Side Notes

Now before we wrap things up, I’d like to address a couple of things.

1. “Genuine criticism =/= harassment.”

This is a phrase popular with Side A when they’re called out for dogpiling. It’s also a massive form of gaslighting that’s attempting to delude everyone.

“Genuine” means real, which is in direct contrast with… fake? This is basically a math equation, so if real criticism doesn’t equal harassment, then fake criticism does? And therefore, harassment equals fake criticism?

Except, why does it matter whether or not I believe what I’m saying? If I’m following you around, shouting it at you, it’s still harassment. You can follow someone around and shout “Trans rights are human rights!” But if they don’t want you there, you’re harassing them.

(Now does that person deserve to be harassed? I don’t know, are you just following around a random person and shouting at them? Because there are better ways to get your message out.)

The point is that this is a phrase that tries to convince both the person on Side A and the person on Side B that what’s happening… isn’t actually happening. It also makes no sense and isn’t true.

2. “Attacker” and “victim.”

There’s a connotation that accompanies these terms that suggests the “attacker” is always in the wrong, and the “victim” is always in the right. But I don’t believe that’s true. You can be a victim of your own terrible actions. That doesn’t mean you don’t deserve what’s coming to you.

As for “attacker” well… If everyone in a dogpile where calmly stating something like “I feel like you have maligned this group of people with your words/actions, and I would very much like you to explain yourself and/or apologize”… we wouldn’t even need to even have this discussion.

But an attack is defined as an aggressive action and members of a dogpile are pretty aggressive. I’m not saying that aggression is always unwarranted, but dressing it up as something else isn’t much better than the whole “genuine criticism =/= harassment” thing.

Sometimes, something should look and sound ugly. That’s why we don’t call it the “pretty truth.”

This stuff came up in a phone call with Gizmodo this weekend. They're working on a story about furry history and how it evolves with social media. A need for deeper investigation and the shallowness of callouts was just a small part of the topic. 7/

— Dogpatch Press (@DogpatchPress) November 11, 2019

The Final Chapter

So, is dogpiling bad? Afterall, if callouts can be good or even have good results, can’t dogpiling be the same?

Here’s the problem. Dogpiling is pretty much a masturbatory act. The callout is posted, and you get to ride a wave of indignation along with other people. 

But it isn’t really accomplishing anything. That big, public apology that Side B posts? It doesn’t work. It doesn’t make anybody feel better. Because the goal of the dogpile isn’t to have Side B change for the better.

The dogpile wants only one thing: to revel in the enjoyment of taking someone down.

Because if it were about something else, literally anything else, then dogpiling would be the least effective means to an end. 

If you feel someone is dangerous, problematic, or just overall a bad person, you could spread the word about them to others who are affected, organizing with real solidarity. You could start a campaign to have them banned from conventions or group outings to create distance. You could encourage others not to support them online and dry up their earnings. You could call the police. 

But if your solution to a problem is to confront someone both publicly and directly, I think it’s important to ask: What is your long term goal? Are you looking for a response, or are you looking for a thrill?

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Welcome to Issue 5 of Zooscape!

Frogs, toads, and mind-altering experiences…

Is there any more powerfully, permanently mind-altering experience than reading a story?  A good story doesn’t just stay with you, it can change you.  It can expand your mind.  Stories are how we navigate the world, and when we let others control our stories, we lose our voices, our power, our agency, and even who we are.  But when we are free to explore and find the stories that resonate—they can give us voice, power, agency, and help us understand who we are.

The great thing about furry fiction is that it doesn’t accept the normal constraints laid upon us in society.  You don’t have to fit into those tiny, limiting boxes.  Read these stories, and for a few moments, become a possum, a frog, a toad, a cat… try on a different experience, and see how it fits.

* * *

Leafless Crossing by Voss Foster

The Stone Mask and the Frogs by Mark Mills

‘Twas Brillig by Michael H. Payne

Go On, Lick Me by Luna Corbden

Nine Ways to Then by Diana A. Hart

Toad’s Grand Birthday Extravaganza by Lena Ng

* * *

If any of these stories resonated with you, please share them!  And if you want to help support Zooscape, we have a Patreon.  Merry December, and we’ll see you in the spring!

by Lena Ng

“…despite his faults, Toad was an excellent host and never did things by halves…”

There is nothing so joyous—as the snow melts away, and the early green buds burst from the branches, and the sun grows stronger and brighter, and the winter’s chill departs from your bones, and the vibrant colours of Easter flowers and emerald grass begin to paint the land—as a heavy, hearty, welcome-to-a-new-spring breakfast. So thought Mole as he stretched and yawned, and stretched and yawned again, belly up under a blue-and-white quilt, while the perfume of spring seeped into his cozy, underground abode.

Soon the smell of sputtering bacon and button mushrooms, reheated tinned beans, roasting tomatoes, fried potatoes, and fresh coffee, mingled and danced and filled the air in his kitchen. So many lovely smells, delicious smells, that it didn’t take long before a rap sounded at his front door.

Mole set down two big plates of blue earthenware on his round wooden table. “Door’s open,” he called out. A pointed, curious nose found its way through the front door and down the underground hallway to the kitchen. The whiskers on this snout twitched and shiny nostrils flared with all the smelling of the food cooking on the speckled blue, pot-bellied stove.

“Ratty,” said Mole, scooping a generous helping of baked beans onto each plate, “I was hoping you would join me. Welcome, welcome spring!”

“Glorious spring,” agreed Rat. “And even better with a full stomach.” He helped with pouring the coffee and getting out the knives and forks. The past winter had seemed especially long and especially cold, and although his house on the river bank was lined with mud to keep out the draft, there was nothing like a good dose of sunlight after the dismal grey. And to see the river thawing from slow and sluggish to leaping and alive delighted Rat every year. “I was on the way back from gathering supplies—for fishing and the like, talking lure-craft and river lore and that sort of thing—when those marvellous smells told me you were awake.” Animals in general know it isn’t proper form to disturb their hibernating kinsmen, just as you yourself would not appreciate being woken in the middle of the night from a deep, dreamless sleep. Instead there were ways to find out who was up-and-about: the grapevine of gossipy rabbits and informative hedgehogs; the sounds of spring-cleaning; run-ins at the market for seeds and herbs.

The tucking in was made even more delicious after the winter’s fast. The catch-up of news would be saved for after the sipping and slurping and crunching and savouring. At last, with his stomach stretching his plaid pyjamas to the table, Mole sat back with a contented sigh. “More coffee, Ratty?”

Rat leaned over his own stuffed stomach to inch his mug closer to the coffee pot. His belly was comfortably full and another cup of coffee would fill in all the small gaps.

Mole halted mid-pour as a low buzz filled the room. The buzz rattled the dishes on the table and stacked on the shelves. The sound faded and Mole started to pour again.

Buuuuzzzz. There it was again. It could be a buzz saw or a lawnmower or a low-flying two seater aircraft…

“Oh, no,” said Rat as his nose twitched. He stared up at the packed-earth ceiling. “It can’t be.”

“Can’t be what?” asked Mole.

“That Toad, Toad of Toad Hall, Toad of Complete and Utter Foolishness. What silly thing is he up to now?”

Despite his heavy stomach, Rat was quickly away from the table and through the underground hallway to the front door. Mole struggled to catch up.

“How do you know it’s Toad?” Mole panted.

“Because anything strange or new or bizarre—it can only be him.”

Rat flung the door open and they both squinted against the bright spring light as they made their way into the awakening field. The propeller’s buzz started to grow louder as it swooped overhead. It was a snub-nosed, two-seater plane, painted a fire-hydrant red.

Mole’s normally small black eyes grew wide on his sleek, ebony-furred face. Behind the pilot’s goggles and wrapped with a red scarf waving in the wind was definitely Toad. Attached to the plane’s back rudder was an enormous flapping banner reading:

TOAD’S GRAND BIRTHDAY EXTRAVAGANZA. TOMORROW 4 PM TOAD HALL.

Mole jumped up and down and waved his small paws. “Toad, over here, look down,” he called out.

“Don’t encourage him,” said Rat as the plane buzzed out of sight. “Because of his jailbreak, he’s still a wanted toad. He’s supposed to be laying low. Instead he’s inviting all of the wild wood to his party. No, this won’t do. We’d better get Badger.”

After the washing up and putting away the crockery, Mole changed into his hiking togs while Rat amassed the necessary supplies for a journey into the wild wood. There was no time to gather the prerequisite plants to carry in their pocket or to perform the safety rituals but they had their walking sticks which would likely serve them well if they met up with trouble.

The bright sunlight soon grew hidden by the trees as Mole and Rat made their way through the dense forest. The brush and crackle of beech leaves underfoot and the snap of small twigs and branches caused suspicious eyes to peer out at them through small holes in the tree trunks. At the sight of the sturdy walking sticks and two companions marching with purpose, these mistrustful eyes disappeared right back into their hideaways.

The friends trudged on in watchful silence until at last they saw the iron nameplate of Mr. Badger.

* * *

“Yes, I saw the banner,” Badger said gruffly as they settled into their armchairs, with steaming cups of tea and small plates of sandwiches resting on the side tables to revive them. “The whole wood saw it, with the ruckus his plane was making. I’m surprised he’s still flying it; I thought it was repossessed. Well, we’d better be off since I’m the only one who can talk any sense into him.”

Badger led them back through the wild wood, down the hidden pathways and clandestine trails, cautious yet confident as always. He recited the essential passwords and gestured the required signals and soon they emerged from the dappled light of the dense forest into the open meadow leading to Toad Hall.

After some time trekking through bluebells and brambles, the ivy-covered stone facade of Toad Hall came into view. The snub-nosed plane sat in front of the west wing of the house, its owner waving as the companions drew closer.

“My dear, dear friends,” Toad said, putting away the cloth after polishing the side of the red plane to a gleam. “I take it you’ve seen my invitation to my little soirée.” With his goggles pushed back on his broad head and his pilot’s uniform of a brown suede flying jacket with a shearling collar, red scarf tied nattily around his neck, Toad was the picture of dashing. “Thank-you, thank-you for helping me prepare for my birthday party. It will be the biggest, grandest party in existence. A special day where I would like to treat all of my friends.  All to commemorate, well… me. I’m turning four.” Four may seem young but it was a ripe, respectable age for any toad.

Mole examined the underside of the plane closely, mainly because his eyesight was poor, and he was very round and small and couldn’t look much higher. Rat clambered up into the passenger side and leaned back into the leather seat. Although he was dedicated to his river, Rat decided he would write his next poem about flying.

Badger’s stern look through his round spectacles didn’t seem to damper Toad’s enthusiasm. The grey whiskers on his cheeks quivered. “Don’t let this party run wild, Toad. By not controlling the guest list, you don’t know who will turn up. Remember the time your house was overrun with stoats and weasels.”

“Hee, hee,” Toad laughed. “Wasn’t it a magnificent time running them off? Stoats and weasels had no defense against my mighty cudgel. A whoop and a sound licking and off they ran.” A self-satisfied smile crossed his homely face. “But with the party, it’s too late. I’ve invited everyone and I’ve spared no expense. There’s champagne in the icebox, canapes and caviar, and gifts to take home. Now help me wrap the party favours.”

Toad led them through the arched doorway of Toad Hall, down the portrait gallery of Toads Past to the grand dining room. In a gigantic mound on the polished herringbone floor were treats and enjoyments of every shape and size. There were beautifully painted books whose illustrations popped up from the page. When a tab was pulled, the cut-out horses with flowing painted manes would lope around a carousel or a lion would leap at the paper cage bars or a lark would open its beak and sing. There were boxes of striped sugar candy cubes which would fizz and snap in your mouth when you ate them. There were lavender recorders and pink whistles. There were foil pinwheels and contraptions which blew bubbles and yoyos and tin cars which raced around the room with the turning of a metal key. Pages could be written on the variety of enchantments lying on Toad’s floor. It was all very delightful. It also looked like a lot of work to wrap them.

Before the grumbling could start, Toad held open his arms. “Please, my dear friends, I need your help. You’re right, Badger, this party will get out of hand without your assistance. But it’s my birthday and all I want to do is make others as happy as I am.”

Well, no one could say no to that so Badger, Rat, and Mole spent the rest of the day and into the evening wrapping gifts while Toad sang rousing wild wood songs to keep their spirits going as he hung up the streamers and balloons.

* * *

The next day, the group had barely set upon their lavish breakfast—since, despite his faults, Toad was an excellent host and never did things by halves—before the doorbell began to chime. Over the morning, in streamed a parade of a musicians, caterers in liveried uniform, jugglers in bright costume, somersaulting clowns sporting fuzzy wigs, twirling ballerinas, and other entertainers.

A large, striped canopy with a stage for speeches was set up in Toad’s back acreage. There were three tables for the food and drink. A small, fenced in area held the petting zoo with miniature ponies and pygmy goats. Another large table held the cheerfully-wrapped gifts for the guests. In the back, much to Badger’s chagrin, was an enormous pile of fireworks.

“How much did all this cost?” Mole asked with mouth dropped open as he surveyed the party landscape. Toad Hall was set on five acres of green, fertile land with plenty of room for all of the celebration’s amusements.

“Never mind,” said Toad, proudly wearing his bespoke tailored birthday outfit. It was an orange suit with fashionably-thin lapels with a patch of the Toad Hall coat of arms sewn on the front, accompanied by a striped blue-and-orange silk bow tie. He also sported a splendid hat which could have put any royal hat to shame. “You only turn four once.”

With all the coordinating and setting up—the tiered cake was to go here and the chocolate fountain would go there and the pyramid of champagne glasses were to be arranged over there—and Toad practicing his speech and songs, with some fine-tuning and editing by accomplished poet Rat, the time hurried by and soon it was four o’clock.

“Well, I’m off,” said Badger, as the first guests, a dozen or so of rabbits, started to hop in. “Happy returns, dear Toad.”

“You’re not staying for the party?”

Badger packed his day bag with a few edibles for the road. “You know how much I hate society and parties. Peace and quiet is all I care for. But I promise to return tomorrow to help you with the cleaning up.”

“We’ll keep him out of trouble,” said Rat. Mole nodded enthusiastically with a mouth full of pistachio pudding.

* * *

Rat and Mole had to agree. It was the grandest party in existence. The fireflies gave a twinkling, flirtatious light. The ballerinas pirouetted and the jugglers juggled and the edibles were eaten and the drinkables quaffed. Toad’s larger-than-life presence lorded over everything.

And the noise! No polite party conversation here. Instead the happy cacophony of live music and snippets of carousing songs and excited chatter and laughter. Even Toad’s terrible jokes seemed to be immensely funny, and it was his own booming laughter that was the loudest at the telling. Everyone admired Toad’s flourishing hat and wished him happy returns, and the champagne flowed like the river.

A few weasels and stoats appeared, hats in hands, quite humbled by their previous defeat. Toad bore them no animosity since they sincerely wished him longevity and best wishes, and they joked a bit about their past scuffles and Toad’s stalwart fighting. The Chief Weasel pledged his best behaviour and unwavering loyalty and brought an enormous wicker basket filled with aged cheeses, candied fruit, crystalized crickets and other such amphibian delicacies as a gift from them all.

Finally, a drum-roll sounded and a hush fell upon the celebrants. Toad ascended onto the stage. He stood for a few moments, soaking in the attention. “My dear, wonderful, considerate, kind—”

This went on for several minutes until all the appropriate adjectives were exhausted.

“—loyal, generous, loving friends,” Toad began. “Thank-you for sharing my special day.”

A cheer arose from the crowds.

Toad cleared his throat and waited for silence. “I suppose you are all wondering about the origins of Toad.” After a pregnant pause, “It all began in the mid-thirteenth century, when my great ancestor, Toad de Bonaparte, was still a tadpole wriggling in a fish pond deep in the heart of France…” He regaled the crowd with the history of Toad and somehow managed to make it all the way to the beginning of the fifteenth century before someone yelled—

“Song!”

Which Toad didn’t seem to mind since who could blame anyone for wanting to get to the good part. He changed his stance, breathed deeply with his diaphragm, and poured forth a self-composed song, sung mainly in key.

Just as Toad reached the highest note of his song, the stage began to rumble. Across the field sounded the pitter-patter of an army of little feet. Little feet running, little feet jumping, little feet racing down the hillside and over the green grass and heading directly towards Toad Hall. Hundreds of little feet belonging to a horde of…

Lemmings!

Lemmings, lemmings everywhere, pudgy brown fur balls from all over the countryside. They guzzled all the champagne. They cannonballed into the chocolate fountain, spraying founts of chocolate. They chittered all at once in their high-pitched voices so that no one could hear the sound of their own thoughts. They razed through the birthday cake and vacuumed up the canapes and hors d’oeuvres.

The party guests scattered. The miniature ponies and pygmy goats jumped the fence and ran off, booting lemmings left and right. Toad went into a manic panic of racing here and there but wasn’t able to accomplish much of anything. The stoats and weasels sprang up at once and managed to gather a few of the lemmings under their arms but the sheer numbers overwhelmed them.

A piercing whistle whizzed through the lemming crowd. It ended in an explosion of heat, light, and colour. A stream of fireworks skyrocketed through the mass of Rodentia. A ringing bang and the lemmings were tossed about and tumbling.

Toad ran to the back where the fireworks were kept. There stood Badger, carefully setting off the missiles, his aim honed by his previous years in the military. “Badger, Badger, how did you know to return?” asked Toad, gasping.

“The lemmings had stormed the wild wood and I knew they would cause chaos,” Badger replied, methodically aiming a Cherry Blaster and setting it alight. The lemmings scattered and scampered, run off by the screaming streams of swirling colour. A crazed excitement filled Toad and he began to set off the fireworks willy-nilly.

“Be careful,” shouted Badger, “or you’ll burn Toad Hall to the ground.”

Caution or foresight were never parts of Toad’s character, and he jumped onto the biggest firework in his arsenal.

“Get off of there!” Badger said.

But it was too late and Toad had set off the biggest firework while sitting right on it. Perched backwards, Toad jockeyed the Colossal Chrysanthemum as the firework shot into the sky. The big rocket exploded, ejecting Toad into the starry stratosphere in a burst of fiery confetti. Rat and Mole watched in open-mouthed, horrified awe as they saw a Toad-shaped figure silhouetted against the moon’s bright face, one arm waving a massive hat.

But gravity gives no exception and toads who go up, must also come down. They heard a mighty thud and saw an eruption of coloured wrapping paper where Toad had landed.

Rat, Mole, and Badger ran to the landing spot. There they found Toad collapsed under a pile of brightly-wrapped presents.

“Toad, oh Toad,” said Mole, hands clasped together and with tears streaming from his liquid-black eyes. “Please tell us you’re all right.”

Toad opened one eye and then the other, looking up at three furrowed expressions. Face blackened from gunpowder, his belly started shaking from laughter. “Best birthday ever,” Toad exclaimed, miraculously without the loss of a single tooth. “Let’s do it again next year.”

 

* * *

Originally published in Non Binary Review Issue 18: The Wind in the Willows, Zoetic Press

About the Author

Lena Ng is from Toronto, Ontario. She has short stories in over two dozen publications including Amazing Stories. Her 2019 current and forthcoming publications include Hinnom, The Literary Hatchet, We Shall Be Monsters, Colp, Beer-Battered Shrimp, The Little Book of Fairy Tales, Mortal Realm, and Mother Ghost’s Grim. “Under an Autumn Moon” is her short story collection. She is currently seeking a publisher for her novel, Darkness Beckons, a Gothic romance.

by Diana A. Hart

“Chaos spread from her touch, stirring my fur like a snake in the grass, but it refused to resolve.”

My paws pounded against the carpet, a furious thunder that matched the drumming of my heart. A meowl tore from my throat. I dropped flat, claws digging into the fiber, and lashed my tail as the visions hit me again. My pupils dilated. Nine versions of reality poured into my skull and smothered my senses, each a fluttering glimpse of what could be.

Clara, my master, stood in line at the student café. In each vision she wore her backpack and clutched a travel mug covered in prancing reindeer. Fingerless mittens—the ones that made her hands look like funny little paws—curled around the warm plastic as she waited for her order. I felt the ache in her belly. The way the aromas of fresh bread and cooking meat made her mouth water. My whiskers twitched in shared hunger. True, not as appetizing as freshly mangled pigeon, but at least she shared my love of bacon.

A man with dog-brown eyes smiled at her. My fur puffed. Something in his gaze was cold. Calculating. Like the neighbor’s calico when she stared at the bird feeder. Dog-Eyes stalked closer and complimented Clara’s pink scarf. Causality scattered like a flock of sparrows. My mind could only keep track of the nine most stable, tumbling through dinners that hadn’t yet happened, walks and talks and movies they hadn’t shared yet—some they wouldn’t, depending how chaos fluttered—but in the end they all settled in the same place: beatings. Crying. Silence. The kind my visions couldn’t pierce…

Anguish exploded from my throat. “No!” I tore into the darkened living room. Streetlight poured through frost-covered windows, casting fractal shadows across the floor. There has to be a way to stop it! “How?” I yowled and bounded over the couch, muscles screaming with the need to move, to do something, anything, to change the way the future fluttered. “How!?” The television remote clattered under my paws. Thumped to the floor.

“Dang it, Bixby,” Clara moaned from the bedroom. “It’s three in the morning.”

Three in the morning… I skidded to a halt. Morning! Yes! Whiskers thrumming, I sank into a crouch. Thoughts churned so fast my fur twitched. The visions always started close to the present. Whatever morning I’d seen, it’d happen soon. My ears flattened. I just had to figure out when it was and stop Clara from meeting Dog-Eyes.

Contemplative churrs rolled off my tongue as I picked through the visions, looking for clues. Clara grumped again from the bedroom. I tuned her out. Focused only on the future: her backpack and her coffee mug, how hungry she was for breakfast, the way her scarf—

I froze. It’s pink. Bile rose in my throat. She laid that one out tonight! My heart leapt to a gallop. I cried out and thundered to her door.

Closed. “No!” I reached up for the knob. Brass slid between my paws, too slick for me to accomplish more than a soft rattle of metal. I flopped on my side and stuck my legs beneath the door. Waved them about and called to Clara. Plaintive cries bore no fruit. Blankets rustled behind the faux wood panel and I caught the soft floomph of Clara pulling her pillow over her head.

I pressed my nose to the gap. Reached even further under the door. I will save you. My paws found only open air.

* * *

Somewhere around dawn Clara stumbled to the bathroom and left her bedroom door open. I waited until I heard the splash of water before slinking into her room, a dead mouse dangling from my jaws. Christmas lights winked along the ceiling, casting a dim but cheery glow, and the first blush of sun crept up her plank-and-milk-crate bookshelf. Tail cocked, I padded to the chair in the corner. Clara’s outfit—a long gray skirt, wool sweater, and a bunny-soft pink scarf—spilled over the seat. I hopped onto the cushion and proceeded to chew the mouse into pieces.

As I sprinkled meat and offal across her scarf I felt a small pang of guilt. Not for the mouse of course—this particular vermin would have pooped in the pancake mix next week–but rather for Clara. Whenever she found one of my kills she’d make a funny grunt and shake like somebody had dripped water on her nose. Still, it’s for your own good. I plopped the last chunk of leg down.

Causality shifted. Churned just past my whisker-tips. I couldn’t see where reality fluttered yet, but something had changed. Across the hall water flushed. I licked my lips, coppery blood sharp on my tongue, and hopped off the chair.

Clara padded back into the room, yawning. Her dark hair was mussed from sleep and she rubbed a palm against her eye. “Hey fuzz-butt.”

I chirped a good morning and twined about her legs. With a sleepy chuckle she slid back under the covers, no doubt trying to catch a bit more sleep before her alarm started screeching. She pulled the blankets up and scratched the comforter in invitation. I just stared. Agitation thrummed through me, made my tail twitch. My visions were still a vague hum that buzzed against my whiskers and until they cleared I didn’t know if Clara was safe. She scratched the blankets again, murmuring for me. A chill raced up my spine. I told myself it was just the cold and hopped onto the bed.

Fiberfill muffled my footsteps. Pressing against her hand, I enjoyed a few luxurious strokes before I curled my tail around my paws and sank into a puddle of fur. Clara smiled and drifted back to sleep. Her fingers splayed across the blankets, barely brushing my coat. Chaos spread from her touch, stirring my fur like a snake in the grass, but it refused to resolve.

I oozed closer. Pressed my nose up next to hers and breathed in her spent air. Traces of last night’s dinner, butter and pasta with a bit of pepper, still clung to her breath. My throat tightened. Please, let it have worked. I pulled in a deeper breath. Sniffed at her eye. All that came of it was a sleepy grimace.

I settled back onto the blanket. Maybe this was a good sign. Perhaps the visions had stopped because Dog-Eyes wouldn’t notice her now. Satisfaction lured me into a slow blink. Minutes slipped by as I watched Clara sleep, her round, soft features free of bruises. Warm as the day she’d found me shivering under a shopping cart. And nobody will take that away. I closed my eyes and began to purr.

Sharp squeals split the air. I jerked, popping out of dreams I hadn’t realized I’d fallen into. Clara groaned and slapped the clock. Shivered as she kicked off the blankets and headed for her clothes. I dropped to the floor, chirping. Everything was normal. I wouldn’t have been able to sleep if—

A familiar grunt hit my ears. Causality began to churn.

I stopped, tail-tip twitching.

“Really?” Clara said. She picked up her scarf by the ends, shuddered, and held it at arm’s length as she headed for the trashcan. The nebulous churn turned to nine points of pressure. I stiffened. Mouse-bits tumbled into the can as the future crashed over me. Causality battered my vision like a flock of sparrows, then and now a fluttering, chaotic mess.

My pupils went wide. Same café, same backpack, same mug… Now-Clara flicked her pink scarf into the laundry. Shivers raced up my spine, arching my body. In my visions Dog-Eyes walked up to then-Clara and commented on her blue, tasseled scarf. Now-Clara pulled matching fabric out of her dresser. My throat squeezed too tight to screech.

I burst into motion, thundering down the hallway.

* * *

“Ugh, I should have printed this off last night,” Clara said from the living room. I paused, mouth full of food, and flicked an ear her direction. Brewing coffee and fresh ink reached my nose. There was a smack of palm-on-plastic. “Come on, work!” Paper crumpled as the printer ate another page of Clara’s essay. She made a noise somewhere between a whimper and a growl.

In the bathroom I sighed and crunched down more tuna-scented kibble, hoping it would quiet my stomach. Trying to save Clara had left me with sore muscles and a belly full of acid. She was trickier than the red dot, foiling every attempt to keep her from meeting with Dog-Eyes. Laying in the sink so she couldn’t brush her teeth? Countered with a scoop and a plop. Hair ball in the kitchen? Paper towels and Windex. Sitting on her cell phone so she couldn’t find it? Clara just called it from the land-line. My tail twitched. Granted, the butt-massage had been fantastic, but my visions remained unchanged.

A whoop burst from the living room. “Finally!”

My fur puffed. You’re almost out of time! I choked down the last bit of breakfast–leaving a ring of garnish behind, of course–and hurried for Clara.

“Late, late, late,” she chanted, shoving her essay into her bookbag. The computer gave a good-bye ding and went black. She snatched up her bag, halfway zipped, and hurried for the kitchen. I followed after, hounded by the flutter of what would soon be.

Clara tossed her bag on the floor by the coffeemaker and trotted to the dishwasher. Oozing around the door frame, I rubbed my cheek against the stove and gave my tail a little jiggle. Did my best to act calm. Inside I was yowling. Think! The dish-rack clattered. My whiskers twitched, heavy with fast-approaching reality. Clara cursed and pushed the dishwasher shut. Her feet slapped softly against the linoleum as she bounded for the cabinets. I perked, a new plan flash-forming.

While Clara dug her travel mug out of the cupboard I tossed myself on the floor behind her. She turned around, kicking me in the side as I rolled onto my back. Pain lanced my ribs.

“Augh, Bixby!” she yelped, breaking into an awkward stagger. Her other foot thumped down near my head. My pulse spiked. She gaped at me, eyes wide. “You okay?”

Not really, but I just pulled my paws up under my chin. Curled into a C-shape that fluffed my belly fur. “Now?” I chirped.

She frowned. Reached down and rubbed under my chin. “Sorry, buddy,” she said and began to straighten.

“No!” I rolled forward, pawing after her bare hand. Clara headed for the coffee pot. Claws scrabbling at the linoleum, I got in front of her again and flopped across her path, rolling about and purring a loud as I could. “Now?” Please, let it work. “N-n-now?” Clara pursed her lips. I chirped.

Clicking her tongue, she crouched down and started rubbing the fur on my belly. Pure joy rang through me, a bell-toll of warmth that flooded my blood and bones. My purrs went from rumble to ear-rattling-quake.

The sparrow-flutter of causality twanged my whiskers. Rolled across my senses. Two of the nine visions replaced the café and Dog-Eyes with Clara’s car, chuggy engine rumbling as she sped for college. My eyes closed in rapture. It’s working! A third vision began to blur away from Dog-Eyes, twisting slowly into icy highway. Just a few minutes more…

In my skull a semi’s horn blared. Then-Clara whipped her head around. All she saw was chrome. Glass exploded. Steel squealed. Pain and silence followed.

My eyes snapped open. Oh hairballs no! Desperate, I sunk claws and teeth into flesh. The new visions flapped in my head, twisting steel and the scream of angry jays, as Clara yelped and pulled back. Blood beaded from several scratches. I leapt onto the kitchen counter, ribs throbbing and fur twitching with stress. Great sweeps of my tail betrayed my agitation. I stared off into nothing and tracked the visions. Don’t be locked in. Reality beat at me. Battered me as the three altered threads flailed about, seeking the strongest path. Don’t come true.

Clara shook her hand. Hissed over her wrist and shot me a glare. I hardly noticed. Mangled steel and burnt rubber morphed back to crisping bacon and predatory brown eyes. A shiver started in my belly and shot up my back, traveling into my paw. I gave it a few quick flicks. Licked it, as much to quiet my nerves as to wipe away the tang of Clara’s blood.

Grumbling, Clara popped the lid off her travel mug and filled it with steaming coffee. Prancing cartoon reindeer grinned up at me, beaming at my ineptitude. Shame made my neck smolder. I stared out the frosty window. Watched a cardinal toss millet out of the feeder to get at the sunflower seeds. It only made me think of Dog-Eyes. I chirped a curse.

“Dang it,” Clara said looking at her wrist again. She replaced the coffee pot, snapped the lid on her mug, and set it on the edge of the counter. “Nice work, fuzz-butt.” She tried to stroke my shoulders as she breezed towards the bathroom. Ashamed, I ducked under her touch. I didn’t deserve her if I couldn’t save her. A few moments later the medicine cabinet clinked shut. Paper ripped as Clara put on a few Band-Aids.

My nose wrinkled. What else can I do? Clara tromped to the front door. I snuck a glance over my shoulder. She pulled on a pair of orange and pink socks, followed by puffy snow boots. The fingerless mittens were next. I gulped. There had to be something left. Get hit by a car? It could work, but was I willing to do that? Dash out the door when she opened it, mangle myself and maybe die so that she wouldn’t meet Dog-Eyes? And what if that just makes things worse…

Clara wrapped the blue scarf around her neck. Nine times over I heard Dog-Eyes compliment it. Then the tumbling flutter of their intertwined lives, followed by crying, pain, and silence. Nine hollow futures roared in my skull. My stomach knotted. Clara cast about for her keys. It wouldn’t take her long to figure out I’d knocked them behind the couch this morning. Ears flat, I took a fortifying breath and turned to face the door.

Out of the corner of my eye prancing reindeer grinned at me. My breath caught. Her coffee. Spider-hunting slow, I glanced at the mug. Peered over the counter. She’d dropped her bag next to the coffee pot, gaping half-open where she’d left it. Her essay peeked out from between a pair of textbooks.

Clara oofed. Keys jingled.

My head snapped up. Clara strode for the kitchen. What could be surged around me like wing-beats, unrelenting. Blood pounded in my ears. I sidled closer to her reindeer mug. Lifted my paw. Something in the way I moved caught Clara’s attention. Her eyes went wide.

She sucked in a breath. “Don’t you da—”

I slapped a reindeer right in his shiny red nose. The travel mug flopped over, glugging merrily, and rolled off the counter into her bag. Clara yowled and broke into a run. I just stared over the edge of the counter, head cocked. Brown liquid poured over her belongings. Dog-Eyes and the café burst away like terrified finches. I wasn’t quite sure where they were headed, but I could feel the distance growing, leaving Dog-Eyes far behind. I sat up straighter, smirking as only a cat could.

Clara dragged the sopping remains of her essay out of her bag. She glared up at me. “You’re an asshole.”

I just chirped and tossed my head.

Cussing, she yanked her books out of her bag, shook the worst of the coffee off over the sink, and tossed them on the counter before stomping into the living room. A happy little chime told me she’d turned on her computer.

Sparrow wings brushed across my senses. My pupils widened. Each vision settled to roost. Three then-Claras got breakfast after lecture, two fell asleep in class. Another three skipped out and went their separate ways around town. The last then-Clara slapped the printer, gave up on her essay, and crawled back in bed. Then-me joined her not long after.

I blinked in slow contentment. There was no telling which then-Clara now-Clara would become, but for now they were safe. I hope she picks the last one. Either way, I closed my eyes and purred.

 

* * *

About the Author

Diana A. Hart lives in Washington State, speaks fluent dog, and escapes whenever somebody leaves the gate open—if lost, she can be found rolling dice at her friendly local game store. Her passion for storytelling stems from a well-used library card and years immersed in the oral traditions of the Navajo. She was previously published in Writers of the Future, Vol. 34.

Follow her on Twitter: @ DianaAHart