Two weekends ago, I drove to the SeaTac Hilton and parked in a distant overflow lot. I was wondering if I was in the right place until I spotted a giant fuzzy bat standing on the sidewalk. When traffic cleared, the bat lifted its wings and scampered across the road, flapping as furiously as an actual winged creature would. There was no one else present. This was not a performance for anyone’s benefit. This was a person in a head space so complete, they were no longer a person at all.
Inside, the lobby of the hotel looked like Noah’s ark. Most people had at least some furry ears or a tail. They chatted in small groups, with a few on all fours, barking. Others gathered around a table, stitching costumes. There was a large room set up for game consoles, and a dealer’s den where you could buy animal-shaped pillows, or furry romance novels, or snacks, or porn.
I started talking with a furry who told me his name was MetalFox. As we were waiting for the elevator, he said, “The first photo I ever had with a furry was a reindeer who visited the hospital. I had a few weeks left to live. It was Christmas.”
Next to us stood a rat holding a slice of pizza, and a six-foot-tall blue jay. Neither one batted an eye at his story, and indeed they couldn’t have even if they wanted to—their eyes were plastic mesh embedded in masks of synthetic fur…
