Snouts always looked distinguished. I’ve told you this before, how they prick the evening air or hook into a snarl. And paws, my god, earthy—battered, like old coins.
My first hero was a rat who thought he was a poet. My first crush, a bear who carried a tune. (He looked after a brown boy, too, remember?)
“The best way to survive an apocalypse is to become an idea,” wrote Janani Balasubramanian. And there was no greater prelude to ruin than knowing your body would never do.
In my particular beginning, there was the MUD or Multi-User Dungeon, and from it came the MUCK, of which the oldest and largest is FurryMUCK, and it was there I met friends who darted from branch to branch, and a chemist, barely out of school, who wanted to rim the Sheriff of Nottingham, like a tire spinning in packed snow.
Me, I just wanted to belong.
@desc me=@$desc Standing before you is a fox. Short, plump, fidgety. He wears a %sub[jewelry] tight to his neck and a pair of %sub[clothes]. What strikes you is his coat, a glossy and brilliant %sub[colour].