*short story* Paw and Prejudice (4500 words) (Clean, humor, satire)

[Glycanthrope]

A not-too serious look at political correctness and tolerance, or lack of same.

Cultures clash and tempers flare when Brocky introduces the family to his new girlfriend.
Talking about tolerance and acceptance across species is easy, but when it moves into your home,
it suddenly becomes a whole different matter.



- Paw and Prejudice
by Glycanthrope


This story can also be downloaded in glorious black/white/striped .pdf format from :
 https://www.furaffinity.net/view/26929953/

I was killing a coyote when dad walked in.
The coyote’s name was El Cayo and he was the main villain in the story I was pounding out for the school magazine.
“Err!” said dad, clearing his throat.
I looked up from my laptop, making a note of El Cayo’s final words as six slugs of lead slammed into his ventricles. Dad shuffled his feet, scratched his head and avoided eye contact. He does that when he’s lost for words. Maybe he expects to dig out some ancient wisdom from the fur behind his ear.
“So… How are things between you and Rhania, lately?” He finally asked.
“We’re taking a break,” I replied. Rhania and I had gone steady for months, but dating the sister of your closest friend puts a strain on everyone involved. Like, how can you tell your buddy about the noises his sister makes when she gets really excited?
 
“Your mother tells me you are seeing someone new…”
“Kaitlyn Anderson,” I replied. “She’s in my writing class.”
“Listen, she sounds like a really nice girl, But…” Dad looked uncomfortable. He slapped his pockets, hoping to find his smoking pipe there. But failing that, he adjusted the spectacles on his muzzle instead.
“Don’t you think she’s… kind of human?”
“I really haven’t given it much thought.”
“I mean, your mother and I don’t want to tunnel into your affairs, but this one seems somewhat more… human than most.”

Somewhat human was the understatement of the season. Of Kaitlyn’s pedigree there could be no doubt; she was born to human parents, raised in a human neighborhood, she was bilingual in human and common, and used vision as her primary sense. Her every chromosome from first through forty sixth screamed homo sapiens for as many generations as current science can reliably trace. I met her at the Oakenford Open University, where we both followed a course in creative writing. It’s an international environment with students hailing from all places. Thus, the dean is a great Dane, the professor is a French poodle and the baseball coach is a German shepherd, so I didn’t pay much attention to the fact that Kaitlyn was ethnically human. She was just someone who was inspiring to talk to, and fun to hang out with. I loved the way she smelled of tea-tree oil, and things really clicked between us when she admitted to have a weakness for guys with stripes.

Rhania, my ex girlfriend is a fox, but somehow her vulpinicity didn’t bother my parents. Maybe it was because her brother Renard and I have been best friends since fourth grade. Mrs. Fox is a pediatrician, a profession that grants her much favor with the local rabbits, and Mr. Fox is a cleric of Iuna, the matron saint of woodland dwellers.
“Foxes are basically like badgers,” explained dad. “Only with prominent tails and leaky bladders. Besides, you’ll never find a finer auto-mechanic.”
“And Renard is such a polite, Iunish boy,” added mother who had joined dad in the doorway.
“But human people,” agreed both, “have problems integrating into animal society.”

Their opinions on humankind came as a shock to me. “But you guys are always going on about, how we shouldn’t judge people by the length of their fur?"
Dad hesitated a bit. “True, but I was mainly referring to people who have actual fur. You know, someone who are culturally more like us, like wolverines or stoats.“
“Or otters,” said mom. “Otters are dependable and have a proper sense of hygiene. Especially the Swedish.”
Dad nodded. “I’ve never met an unwashed Swedish otter. They always remain perfectly neutral when it comes to scent and politics.”
“But humans… have no fur.” agreed my parents. “That’s a scientifically proven fact. Except for little wispy hairs on their arms that wouldn’t keep a desert rat warm.”
“- And they smell like wet chicken.”
“- And their language is very shouty.”

“So what if Kaitlyn isn’t a badger?” I was growing increasingly annoyed. “Mother dated a red panda before she met you.”
“I was young,” giggled mother, avoiding the look dad sent her. “-and Zhang was an exchange student. He smelled of lemon grass and wrote haiku.”

An ancient sett
The tanuki digs deep
Another tunnel sees the night.

“But then I met your father. He swept me off my paws with his musky odor and rustic charm.”
“Heh! I dated quite a few ratels while I was stationed in India,“ said dad, his fur rippling slightly. “But then I met your mother. It was love at first sniff, so I dug out a bedroom on our first date,” dad said dreamingly, reminiscing about his youth.
“-and he hasn’t stopped since,” sighed mother. “Our sett has nineteen bedrooms by now.”
“Make that twenty,” said dad quietly. “I’m just bringing the bracken in.”
   
“Please!” I interrupted. “I’m taking Kaitlyn out for dinner tomorrow morning and I want to make a good impression. It’s difficult enough, without you guys being speciesist about my date.”
My parents glanced at each other, slightly embarrassed with their politically incorrect outburst.
“You’re right,” said mom. “Not everyone can live in the woods. We shouldn’t be judgmental about the less fortunate species.”
“True,” added dad. “Their ancestors migrated from warm climates, so they shed all their fur. Now they huddle together in cities to stay warm. I guess human sexual promiscuity is just another evolutionary twist.”

Finally, they both conceded that humans possess amiable qualities too.
“-They are very musical.”
“-and they dress in colors, we can’t see.”
“-and they take to global warming like clay to a pigeon.”
With the tension now gone, dad playfully punched my shoulder. “So, where are you taking your latest conquest, slugger?”
“It’s a little place called Homopolis.”
“Oh, DO be careful, dear,” cried mother. “That’s in the human part of town.”

- - -

I picked up Kaitlyn from her home in the Lakeview district of Oakenford, where all houses are separated by small, neatly groomed squares of land. I think they might be afraid of each other, so they put up fences to distance themselves from company. Kaitlyn’s parents are dentists and work in the same practice. Mr. Anderson specializes in upper jaw surgery while Mrs. Anderson focuses on lower jaw problems. It’s not uncommon for them to swap places mid-treatment when they serve a client. When I arrived, Mr. Anderson was naked from the waist up while Mrs. Anderson rubbed white lotion into his pink skin. Kaitlyn was the first human I’ve seen fully naked, so her father’s lack of fur didn’t come as a surprise to me. The skin on his shoulders and upper back was peeling off, exposing raw flesh underneath and he seemed to be in a great deal of agony. 
“I stayed out too long in the sun,” he said somewhat embarrassed. “I fell asleep working on my tan, and the next thing you know I’m shedding skin like I was molting -what a world.”

I was surprised no one had warned him about the discomforts of daylight, but their race has been around for half a million years, which would seem ample time to discover the pleasures of a cool sett and a moonlit stroll. But since I was dating their daughter, I needed to get on his good side. I offered to come back at night to help him get his tan back up and running. He seemed surprised by the offer and only replied with a series of “errr!”s and “you kids have a good time.”

- - -


Homopolis is a theme-restaurant that serves “authentic human style cooking.” It stays open past midnight, which makes it a great place to go for brunch, and they offer a fifteen percent rebate if you hold a student card. I had only been to a human place once before and that was more or less by accident. You see, Renard and I used to frequent a student cafe called the Writer’s Block. It was a nice place with all kinds of people hanging out, but when we returned after summer break, the neighborhood was predominantly human, and so were the guests. The moment we entered, the conversations froze like an elk in headlights, and fur-less faces with blunt teeth and round pupils turned to stare at us.
“Oh…my…sweet…Iuna,” whispered Renard. “We are the only animal people in here. We are SO going to die.”
“Hang on to your tail,” I whispered back. “Human folks have been known to dangle fox-tails from their car antennas.”
Three otters sitting around a table, sipping sardine cordials waved us over when they noticed out discomfort. “You’ll be OK,” said the otter. “Just don’t jive about matters that are sensitive to them, like bovine tuberculosis.”

So it was with mixed feelings I set paw on the staircase to Homopolis, but Kaitlyn was all smiles, which put me at ease. It’s always comforting to be with someone who knows the local lingo. The patrons were sitting around small round tables, holding paws and shouting. Humans are very loud; it’s because they have poor hearing, and when they grow excited they shout even louder. They shout at their cubs, they shout at passing cars, they shout at their dogs and their television sets. And once they get a conversation going, someone will put on some loud music and the humans scream even louder to make themselves heard, while their partners nod politely and pretend to listen. The human world is a fog of noise in which they can hide.
 
The waiter showed us to our table, which was decorated with a single white wax cylinder stuck into an empty wine bottle. The menu was a testament to the human fascination with fire. From roast chicken, charbroiled venison and deep fried fish, and to steaks well done. Every item on the list had been subjected to obscene amounts of heat before being served, and around us, chatting couples were enjoying the charred remains of what could have been juicy dishes. I enjoy trying out new food, but this place was overwhelming with ethnic authenticity. I wanted to put the menu down, but the waiter eyed me closely.
“What can I get for Monsieur?” he asked.
“Nothing too spicy,” I said finally. “I’m no good with spices; they make my nose run and all.”
“May I recommend Les es-car-go.” the waiter pronounced each syllable slow and deliberate as if talking to a tourist.
“What’s with the car?” I whispered to Kaitlyn. “They haven’t stolen our hubcaps yet, have they?”
“It´s human for snails,” Kaitlyn whispered back.
I breathed a sigh of relief. Human food may be challenging to the palate, but snails is something I can live with as they make up a major part of my every day diet.
“Do you have a slug-list, or is it more like a catch-of-the day thing?”
There was this continuing silence, as the waiter shifted his looks from me to Kaitlyn and back again as if he needed translation.”
“Monsieur?”
“I mean, are we talking Black slug, Leopard slug or maybe even the Spanish slug? I hear the harvest is great this year.”
“They come in a garlic butter sauce.” The waiter stared intensely at Kaitlyn, almost begging her to help him out.
“Great! I’ll take a plate of your es-cargo, with a glass of Chablis. Just make sure the slugs are fresh.”
“Fresh!” rasped the waiter and turned to Kaitlyn. She ordered herself a shrimp salad and whispered “isn’t this romantic?”
I fidgeted around in my chair, trying to make myself comfortable, but humans are tail-less, so their furniture comes without a proper tail hole. Eventually I was left to dangle it down the side of the chair, which looks really undignified.
The waiter collected the menu and I thought we were home safe. But in that moment, he struck a match and set our wax cylinder ablaze.
“Careful,” I whispered. “I think this dude is trying to smoke us out.”
“It’s a candle, dummy.” Laughed Kaitlyn. “You’re supposed to look at it.”
Fire and fur don’t go well together, so I stared at the flame until my eyes watered over.
Kaitlyn just smiled and reached for my paw. “I just love a candle-lit dinner, don’t you?”
I grabbed her hand with both both paws. “It’s wonderful. Just you and me and a burning table.”

The slugs arrived with their shells intact, yet something didn’t feel right. I probed the little spongy spirals of meat with the tip of my fork; to my horror, they didn’t move. I poked them again to make sure they weren’t playing dead, but the dish was devoid of life. The slugs had also been frozen, defrosted and incinerated before they met their lonely fate in a puree of garlic and parsley on a porcelain plate, on a burning table in a downtown student joint. The sight alone was abhorrent, but the taste was even worse; all the slime, the natural juices and earthy goodness had been cooked right out of them and replaced with lashings of molten butter. How could the chef make a mess out of something this simple? 
“So, what do you think?” asked Kaitlyn.
“They killed the food,” I whispered.
“I’m so glad!” beamed Kaitlyn. “I was afraid you wouldn’t like it.”

In the light of the burning wax, Kaitlyn suddenly looked very human. Maybe my parents had been right; maybe the cultural gap between our species was just too wide for this to work out. But all around me, loving couples were holding hands, smiling and staring at their burning table and I envied them. The room began to spin, I was uncomfortable, afraid my fur would catch on fire and I panted for air.
“I love it,” I rasped. “This is great stuff.” 
“But your…tongue is hanging out,” said Kaitlyn.
“Hot!”
“I guess they can be a bit heavy on the garlic.” 
Damnit, I decided. If this relationship was going to work, I’d learn to hang out with humans, I wold gargle molten lava along with them, and enjoy the damn thing like it was ambrosia.
 
“Dessert Du jour!” The waiter served us two ramekins filled with a yellow custard that smelled of vanilla and eggs. Discretely, I touched the side of the ramekin with a finger and found it refreshingly cool. 
“Now, this looks really…” I started, but in that moment the waiter produced a propane burner from the depths of his jacket. He held the tip to the burning wax stick, and an gassy blue flame popped from its muzzle, hissing and pointy like a salamander’s tongue.
I almost jumped from my seat. “Yo! What’s with the blowtorch?”
“But… it’s creme bruleé?” The waiter looked stunned. “We always torch it at the table.”
“Of course you do!” I almost shouted. And to fit in with the human crows, I added “-and I’ll take mine EXTRA burnt.’

We left the restaurant and headed for the car, when we almost collided with a human male who stumbled out of The Filling Station. “Scooze me,” he mumbled, swaying unsteadily towards a public waste bin.
“Are you alright, buddy?” I asked.
“I’ll be in a minute,” replied the human, before doubling over and vomiting violently into a patch of petunias.
“Poor guy,” said Kaitlyn. “I think he’s had one too many.”
“Maybe they didn’t burn his drink properly?” I suggested.


- - -

“I’ve invited the Andersons over for brunch,” mother said. “Now that Brocky and Kaitlyn are seeing each other, we really should meet her parents and let some cultural diversity into our sett.”
Dad replied with an explosive cough that sent a mouthful of half-chewed woodlice scurrying for safety.
“But I don’t speak a word of human,” he cried.  “What if we just sit and stare uncomfortably at each other?”
I assured him that the Andersons were perfectly fluent in the common tongue, which put his mind at ease. But later I caught him hiding away some of our most valuable heirlooms. “I just don’t want to tempt anyone.”

On the night of their arrival, we went around the sett to ask the foxes, the weasels and the rabbits to welcome our human guests. “We want to show them the good old forest hospitality,” said dad. “No matter how strange their customs might be.”
Two stoats were relaxing in their studio space when we made our rounds. They had just returned from a long protest march against nut-allergy in squirrels, but were thrilled by the premise of meeting real ethnic humans. Majira, brandishing her paint brush, made a fatal stab at a canvas to draw the dot in an exclamation mark. 
 “We should make posters to show our support for the human cause.”
 “Right ON!” agreed her friend. “It’s the animal’s burden to help the less privileged species in their struggle for equal nights.”
I believed humans were perfectly capable of solving their own issues, but Majira only inspected an organic acorn before sighing at my obvious ignorance.
“Don’t you know that human religion requires their males to wear socks with sandals when they go out in public?”
I wasn’t sure socks and sandals were a sign of religious oppression; maybe it had once served a practical purpose in their part of the world.
“Bird’s wing propaganda,” sneered Majira. ”Why would they follow such a beaucoup triste sense of style if they weren’t, like über repressed?”
“There ought to be a law against forcing anyone to wear religious symbols in public,” her friend joined in. “Especially when it’s a total fashion faux pas.”
Majira put the final touch on her canvas. “There! We’re all set.” She strapped a broom-handle to the canvas with duct tape and proudly waved her new sign. It simply stated a bold “NO!” in red paint.
“It’s such a versatile statement when we’re out championing social injustice.”

The local foxes agreed not to scent mark our guests without their consent, and only granddad Angus mumbled about how he’d “Ne'er forgotten th' stoatin cull ay th' twenty-first century,” and how humans had turned his great uncle into a shaving brush. He finally agreed not to bring up the war, but still showed us his collection of photos of his brother Hamish, who had personally bitten fifty human soldiers until their ankles broke. Gradually he calmed down as we pretended to pay attention to his stories.
“Ach! They don’t teach th' craft ay crushin' bones in skale nae mair,” he grumbled.


- - -


Kaitlyn arrived with her parents shortly past midnight. Mrs Anderson brought a large bouquet of flowers, which mother brought into the kitchen. 
“How thoughtful of them!” she said, chopping the flowers with a herb cutter. “I’ll mix them in with the salad.”
“Human people don’t actually EAT flowers,” I explained. “They just look at them until they wither.”
“How wonderfully eccentric,” cried mother. “And yet they have so little. Wasting food must be a symbol of wealth in their community.”
Dad and Mr. Anderson were in the living room, pouring over father’s vinyl collection and discussing world music. Dad admitted to “not really getting Jackson Browne, but at least Ozzy Osbourne had the common decency to serve bats raw.” In response, Mr. Anderson finished his drink of centipede brandy in a single gulp. Dad poured him another drink and asked whether they would care to see his newly built worm-cellar?”
“Surely you mean WINE cellar?” asked Mr Anderson with some apprehension.
Dad laughed. “Of course not. You don’t grow wine in cellars.”
We lit our torches and followed dad, single file to the deepest level of our home.
When the hallway took a series of sharp 90-degree turns, the Andersons made a sudden stop. “Why, that’s an unusual bend to put in a hallway?” commented Mr Anderson. “Were you digging around something?”
“This is where grandma Noonie lies buried,” replied dad. “She collapsed right here and died, so we buried her where we found her and dug around her old bones.
“Good lord,” cried Mrs. Anderson. “You keep a dead grandmother in your home?”
“We’re a pretty tight knit family,” said mom. “Uncle Myrica lies further down the hall, and we had my late relatives flown in from Ireland and put to rest in the West wing.”
“When MY grandmother passed, we laid her to rest in the cemetery on Pinewood Ave,” said Mrs Anderson.
“That’s ten miles away from your house” said dad. “You must really have hated that old bird.”
“I… could use another shot of centipede brandy right now,” said Mr. Anderson.

With much enthusiasm, dad flung open the door to his newly built cellar, where a single light bulb illuminated a barren 40 by 40 ft room. Unlike the rest of our sett, the cellar has earth walls and a simple stamped dirt floor. The Andersons looked around, confused. I guess they expected the cellar to be filled with racks of wine, but the only installation in the room was a ceiling-mounted shower-head and a large button on the wall.
“Would you like to see it in action?” asked dad.
Mom nudged his shoulder. “He’s been working on this for months.”
“This is so exciting!” giggled Mrs. Anderson. She tugged at her husband’s sleeve. “I hope they have claret.”
“Behold!” shouted dad. “my piece de resistance. You guys ready?”
 Mr. Anderson replied with a timid “Errr?” which dad took for a “yes, please,” and without warning, he punched the red button. A sudden torrent of water exploded from the shower-head, spraying the walls and all of us with hundreds of gallons of water from the nearby swamp. Dad stretched out his arms and pirouetted around himself like some present day Gene Kelly while the Andersons watched in silent disbelief. “Are you… enjoying this?” Stuttered a thoroughly drenched Mrs. Anderson, her lips quivering while her mascara (now proven non-waterproof) traced black lines from her eyes to her chin.
“The best is still to come,” grinned dad. We shook the water from our fur and watched the walls come alive with hundreds of earth worms wiggling desperately to escape their wet tunnels. One by one, they dropped to the floor with almost inaudible yet appetizing plopping sounds. Dad plucked an impressive specimen from the ground and proudly exhibited it in his outstretched paw.
“Dinner, and a shower. There’s no better way to unwind after a long day on the job.”
The Andersons were not impressed. In fact, they looked cold and miserable. They didn’t even shake off the water. They simply stood still with swamp water dripping from their clothes and hair.
“Now THIS is what I’m talking about,” said dad proudly. “It’s fresh, and one hundred percent organic. You just cant get worms like this from the supermarket.” He dangled the writhing snack in front of his face and I’m sure he would have eaten it on the spot if not Mr. Anderson had burst out: “Surely, you’re… not going to eat that,” wiping his forehead with a sleeve still soaked from the unexpected shower.
“You’re right old chap,” said dad. “Where are my manners? You can have it. I’ll catch another one.”
“I…I just remembered,” stuttered Mr Anderson, “I’m vegetarian.” And with some encouragement from Mrs Anderson he added “… and so is my wife.”
“Dear Lord!” Cried Mrs. Anderson.

- - -

Kaitlyn and I ran from the sett and into the moonlight. We didn’t stop laughing until we collapsed in each others arms in the undergrowth.
“Your dad is something special,” laughed Kaitlyn.
“He… kinda gets carried away when he invents something new.”
“Like a worm cellar with an automated watering system?”
I shrugged. “Some people raise chickens; badgers flush out worms, what’s the big difference?”
“Worms leave dirt on your lips.”

The sound of agitated voices escaped the sett. Humans are a shouty lot, but this night the Andersons seemed shoutier than most.
“Do you think they’ll be alright In there?” I wondered.
Kaitlyn shrugged. “We can’t remain kids to our parents forever. They have their own lives to live, you know.”
 I put my muzzle to her forehead and kissed it gently. “Your face smells nice.”
Vertical folds formed in the skin above her nose - a tell-tale sign of human confusion.
 “You´re wearing something mineral tonight,” I said. “Heavy on the zinc and a kind of clay.”
Kaitlyn laughed. “It´s powder, dummy.”
“Of course,” I replied. “A protective shield so that your skin doesn’t burn and peel under the full moon.”
We kissed, and for one glorious moment, social background, class and species meant less than the warranties given by a used cars salesman.
Then Kaitlyn suddenly backed off and sneezed violently.
“You’re not allergic, are you?”
“No, but your whiskers tickle my nose.”

We stayed out for hours, until the agitated voices from inside had subsided. When we returned to the sett, we found Mr. Anderson in dad’s study. He was in his underwear, looking at a board of MoonZone - a board game that has been around since the first Namairian war, while his clothes were drying in the tumbler.
“You play Moonzone, Mr. Badger?”
“I play against Mr Fox,” said dad and added with a sigh, “he’s one tough opponent.”
Mr. Anderson rubbed his chin and studied the game. “Foxes, eh? They’re shrewd alright, but if you move your owl piece into the oak tree, you’d gain the advantage of visibility during the next daytime cycle.”
“By Inaris, you’re right,” dad burst out. Now why didn’t I think of that?”
“You think and play like a nocturnal,” said Mr. Anderson and tapped his nose, knowingly. “When you face a fox, it pays to think like a diurnal -and we humans are creatures… of the day.”
You could see the gears turning in dad’s mind. To us, humans have always been a race of mystery. They skulk around in bright sunlight and carry out their business while the rest of the world is asleep. While dad took mental notes, Mr. Anderson poured himself a generous helping of centipede brandy. “I don’t mean to brag, but I was the junior champ at Moonzone back in 2025.”
“I’ve played this game since I was a cub,” said dad. “But getting your pieces handed to you by a man of the cloth is downright embarrassing.”
Mr. Anderson laughed. “Maybe you should subscribe to my zoo-tube channel. It’s all about Moonzone tactics.”
With one swipe of the paw, they cleared the board and set up the pieces for a new round of Moonzone while mom and Mrs Anderson shook their heads, leaving their husbands to their favorite game. “MEN!” they said.

Hours later, they reemerged from the study, laughing, reeking of vipermoss wine and slapping each other on the shoulder.
“I was wrong about humans,” said dad. “Sure there are cultural differences, but at the end of the night, we’re all animals. I’ve invited Mr. Anderson over every Wednesday to play Moonzone.”
“-and Mr. Badger will show us how to dig our very own worm cellar,” beamed Mr. Anderson, wiping a slightly sticky speck of dirt off his lips.
“Dear Lord!” cried Mrs. Anderson.

- - -

[Jade Sinapu]

I love it !  Put me into a rather furry "head space", made me think about , well, a lot...
  
Have more?

Also thought your book "Cry me a murder" was good too!
Keep up the good work!  I will have to read the others you have.

If Brocky and Kaitlyn love each other, no food choices can stop them.   
 And yeah, I have noticed that those humans do burn just about everything they eat.  And thier senses are rather dull, bad hearing, no good night vision ... how do they survive?

[Glycanthrope]

Hi Jade,
Thanks for your kind comments; it's truly appreciated.

"Cry me a Murder"  is actually the third book in the "Carter Wolf" series of mysteries, and may not be the... most obvious point of entry.

The first book is "My Guardian Demons" : https://www.furaffinity.net/view/20986189/

The second is: "A Fall From Grace" : https://www.furaffinity.net/view/22876202/
-and comes with a music soundtrack: https://www.sofurry.com/view/1138427

I'm currently working on the fourth book in the series, entitled "Murder at the Speed of Light."

But before this happens, I have to wrap up another ongoing project, called "The Hollow Silence"  (https://www.furaffinity.net/view/22099589/)
which, sadly won't be posted to Furtopia.
I truly love furtopia for taking a "Clean" approach to furry writing, but "Hollow Silence"  incorporates a slew of illustrations and music tracks, which is not technically supported by this site (Sorry guys). 

[Jade Sinapu]

Cool. I will have to start at the beginning... Sometimes I am apparently not oh so observant it would seem.
Furtopia being clean, is a big reason I come here, but I understand sometimes things need to be taken a different direction.   
Keep the ideas coming!