To say that I am completely human is incorrect. To say that I am not human is equally so.
I am, and have always been, a wolf. I am not in a sheep’s clothing, nor girl’s clothing, nor woman’s clothing, nor any other such creature. I see myself as a wolf sometimes, moreso than any other time, with thick fur and piercing eyes. Sometimes others spot it, and it frightens them.
And there is an immeasurable sadness in that realization. I am naturally off-putting and naturally unaware of the fact that I frighten others until I’m told or I sense it, which is when I typically run away, as this is somewhat embarrassing to me. Wolves are misunderstood creatures.
There was a time when I would stare at photos of wolves for hours. There was once a librarian in my grade school with long, curly grey hair that framed her head and shoulders who shared this fascination. Every year, she would adopt a wolf through one of the protection organizations, and she would display the photos and letters of thanks in the library. I never spoke to my peers about my appreciation of her tradition, but I do remember telling her that I loved wolves. She nodded, knowingly. She later told us that she loved Oscar Wilde, too. All these things make sense, you understand.
As a woman, I cannot identify with furry culture, as it is typically considered to be a gay male culture by nature. Nor do I identify with cartoonish recreations of the creatures I love so much. Nor would I want to have sex in a mascot suit. I’m already a wolf, so why would I need a wolf outfit? The parts are already there, in theory. There’s no need to adorn myself in fake bits.
This is a transformative statement, but there are really no transformations involved. Nothing changes visually, nor necessarily in the way that I openly identify myself. As I said, I have always felt this way. The people that know me best are capable of sensing this identification long before I ever mention it, which is an exceedingly rare occasion.
Perhaps they sense it because of the way I interact. I’m silent and tend to observe from a distance unless I feel the need to interject some kind of howl as to mark my presence. A howl is a plead is a word is a need. It is the act of distancing and begging.
But I am a noble beast. There’s too much dignity within me to stand for abuse of myself or anyone else.
I promise I won’t bite, though. Hard, anyway.
You’ll still keep your distance, despite this. I know it.