FSE

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“Never believe a writer.

Listen to them, by all means, but never believe them."

—Stephen King, The Langoliers

Warning: Rant incoming.

People ask me what it's like to be a wolf in a humansuit. Well, they ask me that if they know that I am, in fact, a wolf in a humansuit. I don't think it's exactly advertised on billboards or anything, but I've never been shy about the information. I've always been told that I should be proud of who I am. I've also been told that I should always tell the truth and that, if I did, no one would believe me. You'd be surprised how true that is. I've told all manner of stories in my life, a good many of them published in one form or other, but you might not know the ones that are true at their face value from the ones that are true but which I reinvented for your pleasure. You probably don't even believe that I really am a wolf in a humansuit, but I wanted to tell you a bit about what it's like, because it's important that you know who you might be, too.

There are a lot of things that are sort of cool, walking around in a humansuit like this. It's not about walking around on my hindlegs; that part's easy as hell. I think some cartoonist drew one about that, with all the cows walking around on their hindlegs, until one shouts CAR!, and they all drop to all-fours, and when the car's gone, they're back on their hindlegs. Remember what I was saying about telling the truth and no one believing me? Watch out for the sneaky ones like that cartoonist. He knew more than he ever told, I'm sure of it.

No, not the walking, although just walking for the hell of it can be fun; at one point, I was walking upwards of eight or nine kilometers in a day, barely noticing it. That sort of exercise can also be part of humansuit maintenance. Talk about a bitch… Taking care of this damned humansuit is horrible. I don't know how actual humans can stand it. There are so many design flaws, from top to bottom. Take the teeth, for instance. Not only are they inefficient, they need care, with brushes, and paste, and floss, and seeing some human twice a year or so to make sure everything is still working at least a little bit right. Seems to me that there are human doctors out there who specialize in every part of a humansuit; if you've got something wrong with your left little finger, some guy probably is an expert in that. And don't worry… if it turns out that your problem is in the right little finger, he'll refer you to someone else for that, and then you'll get billed twice.

Humansuit maintenance is the worst, because a human body isn't designed to work properly on its own. It falls apart so fast, and it requires constant vigilance against the horrors of anything from “carbs" and “gluten" to the addictions of nicotine and high fructose corn syrup. Now look, I'm not gonna kink-shame anyone; if you're so into Polysorbate 80 that you just can't do without your cream-filled off-the-shelf “pastries," go for it. Everyone's into something, and at least those kind of things are kinks that you can enjoy in public, and maybe even find someone who's into the same thing without having to resort to some kind of kink-based list on the Internet (the internet itself is another addiction, by the way, and one I have to be careful of myself). I'm just saying that I'm pretty sure it wasn't a wolf who created that stuff in the first place. We tend to cut to the chase.

(Side note: A “processed American cheese food" is that food which is eaten by a processed American cheese. It serves no other purpose, unless you're really into wax. A “processed American cheese" is difficult to keep, since it has such a particular diet. I'd go for a puppy instead.)

These humansuits, though, they're not built for that “cutting to the chase" anymore. Oh, don't go pointing to athletes and gym rats (which is an insult to any self-respecting rat, by the way; they're plenty fit without needing a gym); they're the exceptions, not the rule. Over the past several centuries, humans have made great strides in creating whole generations that are genetically predisposed to any number of issues, and humansuits themselves mimic those problems all too well. So I'm in a situation where maintaining this bee-yotch is a full-time job in itself. (Oh, and that “job" thing… don't get me started. I don't need to get this suit's blood pressure up over that crap.)

Apart from the maintenance issues, though, the humansuit has its advantages in some arenas. In my proper lands, we don't always have the luxuries of finding so much good food, nor the opportunity to discover new foods from other cultures. There's some similarity between our worlds, but I'm talking about being a wolf, okay? I know others who are their own variety of animal in a humansuit; we get to chatting, sniffing each other out, and then we know we're safe to have a nice long kvetch about these damned humansuits. We took these assignments, knowing most of what we were in for, but there's still plenty to complain about. Sometimes, it's good just to let it all out, especially if we can bond over food. Being in a humansuit means that we can be omnivorous, taking in nourishment from across the spectrum, quite different (often) from what we usually eat, because the humansuit can swallow damn near anything and get away with it. Some more than others, I grant you, and the age of the suit has to be taken into consideration, but I mean generally speaking, a wolf, a mouse, a dingo, and a 'roo, all in humansuits, can eat together without a lot of issues about dietary needs, nor kick up a fuss of being animals among humans, because the humansuit hides a helluva lot.

Oh, while I'm at this section of the story, I'd better let you in on that part of things. I distinguish between humans and animals not because we do it but because humans do it. Biologically, humans are animals, but they set themselves above “mere" animals and do all they can to separate themselves from anything truly natural, so we animals don't consider them one of us anymore either. Hey, if you're a human reading this, no offense meant. Well, not too much offense, anyway; you should be a little bit offended, at least, and you damned well deserve it. You, as a species, chose this. If you want to get back to your animal roots, start by removing the stigma from “mere" animals. I mean, you do know that the opposable thumb isn't the big genetic and evolutionary deal you think it is, right? I'd tell you about the advances made just by wolves, much less a lot of other species, but then I'd have to take you into the woods somewhere and show you about that circle of life thing. (Don't worry; it would be quick. The difference between a wolf and a human is that a wolf is more humane.)

If any humans out there still have doubts about how much you all wish you could be animals again, I have only to point you to the millions of dollars spent annually on creating animal suits to wear outside of your human bodies, or commissioning artists to draw pictures or write stories about you as a human-like animal interacting (usually sexually) with other human-like animals. Can't get enough of the stuff, can you? Some of you live in your parents' basement, spending 90% of your meager income on it (that whole “job" thing again; seriously, don't get me started). There are other ways to experience that, but again, I can't tell you about them without upsetting the balance too much. Enjoy your dreams; that's what they exist for and, like I said before, no kink-shaming.

So yes, this humansuit does have a few things to recommend it. Gathering with friends to be omnivorous together is one of them. The whole food thing is fun too, since I don't think my kind ever imagined ginger beer. (Since my humansuit has a potentially fatal flaw involving sugar, I get to have the diet variety which, luckily, has great flavor after all.) I discovered the joys of a Bundy's and a curry pie, with a salted caramel custard pie for dessert, only recently. I was with friends when this happened, and that made it even more wonderful. I'm not even sure that a mouse, a 'roo, and a dingo would find me welcome if we hadn't met one another through the humansuits first. Generally, humans all look alike to us, and they're all potentially irrationally hostile (that's a species trait which, thankfully, the rest of us have pretty well managed to bypass); however, so-called “societal norms" have provided at least the possibility of congenial relations, should the humans in question have sufficient sense to give it a try. I've spent most of my life in a human country that has all but eliminated what they ironically call “common" sense, which is why I was so grateful for the chance to visit another country, a place where most of the humans were actually nice to one another. It was as refreshing as a dip in a small river pond on a warm day. (Or, if you're in a humansuit, popping a cold Bundy's on a… well, anytime, really.)

There's one major disadvantage to a humansuit, and that is that it's all too easy to lose one's ability to perceive things properly. Being inside a humansuit means having to filter all of one's keen senses through the ill-equipped sensory equipment available to humans. Everything is dulled, particularly the sense of smell. Sight and hearing are lousy in humans, and although taste can be good, touch isn't nearly as sensitive as it is in real animals. Smell, though… that one's hampered twice. First, the human nose just isn't built for subtleties; it has barely ten percent of the receptors that I have as a wolf, and those human receptors aren't very refined. Second, humans are offended by almost any scent you can name, and they work very hard at eliminating them, covering them up, or preventing them. It's so bad that humans actually have to ask if someone is sexually interested in them. Not only can they not detect musk properly, they work to get rid of it. That's a damned stupid system, but no one asked me, either about the system or about being sexual, so never mind about all that.

(I'll make one further observation about this. Humans don't mark their territory or possessions properly, but they still call getting into an argument over such things a “pissing match." Maybe they really do miss their separation from animals. Besides some humans do… wait, never mind, I did say “no kink-shaming" here.)

Another issue about humansuits and the inability to perceive events and emotions correctly: I don't know what it is about humans or humansuits, but the suit acts like a Faraday cage against intuition and discernment. Maybe it's another flaw of how the body/suits are constructed; no tail, the ears don't move enough, and contrary to the poet's observation, human eyes are built to be storm-shutters of the soul. Not only can you not see, hear, or smell anything about a human, but any animal instinct that you have is shut down to virtually nothing. It's such a rare thing that there are humans who sell themselves as diviners, whether it's reading the stars, Tarot cards, palms, or whatever. Most of them are fakes; most humans wouldn't know intuition or spiritual contact if it had all the special effects of a Las Vegas headliner's show. Some few can tell when something is “a little off," and there are some few who actually know that I'm a wolf in a humansuit before I get a chance to tell them. They are the ones who haven't given up being animals; they know that being an animal is not an insult, that it's actually a compliment, when used correctly. I usually like those humans, unless they're trying to use their ability to cheat others. That's when the wolf comes out, especially in their dreams, and in those circumstances, they don't like me one little bit.

Now, Constant Reader, we come to the reason for my rant. Something happened to me recently, something I'm still reeling from. I could blame any of these things I've talked about thus far; they all had some contribution to what happened, including the age of my humanusit, the dampening of my discernment, an inability to really sniff folks out (especially on the internet)… The simple truth is that I forgot my Self. I forgot that I'm a wolf, and that led me into all manner of trouble.

Forgetting the Self is all too easy to do, these days, in this benighted world overrun by more than seven-and-a-half billion humans hell-bent on destroying the animals, the planet, each other. I won't get up on the soap box; it's never easy to stand on for too long, and people get bored by it. The thing is, humans are far too easily distracted from what's real, and worse than that, they are continually bombarded by things that hurt. Remember that “job thing" I keep avoiding? That's one. “Earning a living." Life is itself; it's not “earned" any more than death is. Life is, as a certain Martian in another True Story once said, it's own answer; it is meant to be savored, reveled in, enjoyed day by day, lived as well as possible. In this day and time, however, humans have almost put an end to being able to live that way, or even simply to live. Every day becomes struggle, danger, misinformation, prejudice, hatred, fear, and the overwhelming notion that there is absolutely no value in living, unless one can prove one's worth by exchanging something of oneself for nothing more substantial than mere money. A wise human (there are a few, perhaps by sheer chance) once said that time is one's total capital, and nearly all humans are spending their time “earning a living" in a race to the grave that no one wants to win but no one dares to lose.

A wolf Is. There is no “earning" anything. Each day has its tasks, or perhaps none at all. As part of a pack, a wolf may do many things, for the pack is family and is maintained as such. As a lone wolf, he does as he wishes, living for himself and Being as he is. You'll often find that the lone wolf is the explorer who, one day, returns to the pack to be the teacher, to tell the tales, to help the others learn. (That's a hint, by the way, about this whole humansuit thing… but enough of that.) All of these activities, including doing nothing at all, is part of a great natural exercise in balance. It is, as that would-be Martian called it, enjoying the gift of pure Being. A poetic notion, created by a human who actually got it right. Not many read his work anymore, more's the pity.

What is more pitiful, however, is that I forgot all that. I fell victim to the madness of other humans. I let myself forget my wolvishness, my inner Spirit, and I came to believe that I was doomed to stay human, with nothing left but the associated slings and arrows. I let another convince me that he was actually like me, a wolf in a humansuit, and that he loved me and wanted me with him. Without my discernment, without my wolf-self able to see anything more than this humansuit, I took him at his word, thinking that he would somehow take me in, support me, take care of me, rescue me, save me. A wolf doesn't need saving, in any level playing field. That was also part of what I fell victim to, since there are no level playing fields anymore, not even for humans, and especially not for animals.

So it was that I went to another place, another country, another continent, in search of what I already had, yet became convinced that I had lost… and further conned into thinking that he could provide for me.

Let me remind you of a few things. I began this explanation of my existence by telling you that I was told, when I was but a pup, that I should always tell the truth, and that no one would believe me. I've heard it said that one advantage in telling the truth is that you only have to remember one version of the story, so you'd always be consistent. The interesting problem there is that, since I'm a storyteller in the first place, I have to keep finding more and more true stories to tell, for the entertainment and enlightenment of my readers. I can create stories out of thin air or out of my experience, and they will be true stories… but as always, it's for the listener to decide if they believe the truth or not. I bring this information out at this juncture in the narrative because it relates directly to what I was talking about — the idea that I'd lost something when I really hadn't. There's a song out there about telling sweet little lies and, like all such things, it's based on the idea of wanting to hear certain things at certain times, whether they're true or not.

Humans are like that. You know one of the biggest jokes that humans will tell on themselves? “Do these pants make my ass look big?" There's no right answer to that question, or let's say that there's no way to make any direct truthful statement that won't anger the questioner. When a human tells you, “I want to ask you something, and I want you to tell me the truth," they are telling the first lie of that conversation; by saying up front that they want the truth, they're letting you know that the truth is the last thing that they want. Not only is it assumed that there are occasions when you don't tell the truth, it's pointed out that this is an occasion where truth is not wanted. Tell 'em those sweet little lies, because that's what they want to believe.

When I forgot myself, and when I let myself believe all the lies that so much of human life is made up of, I became susceptible to yet more lies told by an experienced, proficient, and prodigious liar. I was flattered, cajoled, assured, told anything and everything to get me to believe his version of reality. After the battering that my humansuit had taken for so long, it was easy to believe because, after all, my humansuit needed to hear those sweet little lies, and besides, how could I check his story?

The first and biggest lie that he told was that he too was a wolf in human's clothing. I'm usually a little better at catching that lie, when it's tossed out there, but I was all too willing to believe it, at that point in my life. I won't blame him for my mistake; I let my guard down. What I will blame him for is all the lies. “I've paid for your humansuit maintenance, all the doctors and meds you need!" Lie. “There's plenty of room here in the house for you!" Lie. “We know all our neighbors here, and they'll love to meet you!" Lie. “There's a publisher down here who's interested in your books!" Lie. “There's a big market here for the voices you do!" Lie. “I have connections here to make this all happen for you!" Lie. “I love you!" Biggest lie of all.

We all like the possibilities, though, don't we? And some of what he talked about wasn't a lie, but that's only because he wasn't talking about himself. Humans make themselves look better by talking up those around them. “If they have these traits, then I must, too." Out of over 7.5 billion humans out there, there are gonna be those with all sorts of traits. Granted, when you're in a bunch, with too many of you in one place, you get worse — hostile, greedy over diminishing resources, readily contaminating one another with diseases, easily set to violence. It's funny, because you humans took non-sapient mice and performed cruel experiments with over-crowding, overpopulation, all of the same things that you're subjecting yourselves to voluntarily, even eagerly, and you don't even have the sense to look at your own data. (Oh, and I know a mouse or two who'd like to have a word with you about that.)

So I look around Where I Am, entirely forgetting Who I Really Am, and I look at how badly the humans are screwing themselves around here, and I start wondering if it's true that there's a nicer brand of human in another country. News flash for ya, Sparky: There is, although they're being infected by the worst of ya. On a per-capita basis, there's a lot nicer bunch of humans in Where I Visited, and if they can learn faster than the ones on this side of the globe, they'll be a helluva lot better off. Let me explain in more specific terms, starting with how bad the Big Liar was.

Once I actually got down there, this fake-wolf-human starts to smell wrong from the start, even to my inadequate humansuit nose. Of course, after so many hours of travel, everything smells wrong, probably even my own humansuit, so who was I to judge? Out of a thirteen-week visit, I spent the first week trying to get on my own hindpaws enough to figure out what's what. I noticed almost from touchdown that the natives of this part of the world (the huge majority of them, at least) were laid back, helpful, kind, giving off a very cooperative vibe. Compared to what I'm used to, it was an astonishingly pleasant contrast.

Not so much with the Great Pretender. Being in close quarters with anyone makes it more difficult to maintain any illusion; someone pretending to be a good guy eventually will do something mean, just as a someone pretending to be a bad guy will accidentally do something kind. Truth will out. It didn't take much time for me to figure out that this was no wolf; not long after, I figured out that he wasn't much of a human either. You know that old joke about someone pissing in the gene pool? Well… it doesn't serve me, as a wolf or a sapient being, to ridicule another, particularly as he does such a good job of doing it to himself.

You think I'm kidding? Try this one. The place I visited has incredible views, amazing scenery, the very reason for postcards to exist. This human took me up a hill, had me crawl out of his car (my humansuit is far more used to my minivan than to these low-slung vehicles), and he put his hand on my humansuit ass, fondling as he often tried to do whether in public or private, using the other hand to encompass the whole horizon. “It's all yours, love; you just have to take it." Meaning marry him, which to him meant that I could stay there. I had to wonder if he thought that he could somehow give me this land, like some potentate. (It would be cheap of me to go for the “impotentate" joke… oops…)

It was as my senses slowly returned, as this human showed more of his real self and motives for having me there, that I finally started to get an idea that what he had claimed was every bit a lie. It took a while for me to meet other people down there, but I did, and that was when I began to discover exactly what I'd landed myself in. Mind you, I'd been in touch with two others down there, even before I arrived. My stallion friend, who I'd known for a good six or seven years by this time, was in another city and had disappeared from view; the other is a mouse who is good and kind, who did not want to prejudice me in any way prior to my trip, because he too rather wished I'd find a way to stay. It was the mouse who led me to the friends who would rescue me from the clutches of the unbalanced human.

Another short pause to remind you of a few things. I'm a storyteller. I tell the truth because no one believes it. What truth I tell depends upon the story. For instance, there are stories about the stallion that will not be told, save to what few others we two may choose; they're too true for most people to really be able to deal with, and they're too personal besides. Likewise, there are those who are concerned that this narrative contains all the “panting melodrama" of the sort that Ellery Queen or Sax Rohmer would produce. I told the truth right from the start: I'm a wolf in a humansuit. The rest of my truth, you'll have to weigh for yourself.

When a human is unsure about his observations of a situation, he may ask other humans. Animals do it too, if they're pack types; for instance, if one zebra out of a herd gets a bad vibe, others will take notice and look to confirm it. Wolves do the same, although a bit more subtly (we have that whole “cool" rep to maintain). So after a few weeks of getting the feeling that something was, to use a modern phrase, “not as advertised," I started doing a little fact-checking. I'll spare you the step-by-step confirmations by telling you of something a wise old member of my pack told me — once, happenstance; twice, coincidence; thrice, pattern. My first new contact had an ax to grind with the human, but he did verify physical actions that had occurred; my second contact was independent and described things about the human even before I did; the third was when my mouse's friend, a dingo, got fondled and hit-on right in front of me… which would have been fine, if the attentions had been welcome, and they weren't (and the human had been told this, more than once, in the past).

As I said before, wolves tend to cut to the chase (my own wordiness notwithstanding). The quantity and frequency of my discoveries escalated quickly, up to and including the human's reputation in the local community. I spoke to the Perfidious One, quietly and firmly, about my doubts while I still had six weeks left in my visit. By that time, I had gone two weeks without insulin and several other drugs required for my humansuit maintenance; the human's claim for having my medications available turns out to be a belief that an “instant marriage" would grant me national coverage (“I've researched all this, and marriage is an easy road to your citizenship!" Lie, with savage legal consequences when attempted flippantly.). A ram from back home loaned me money, and the dingo I'd met helped me to a doctor. The human's attitude went through several phases, including some mild physical violence and as much verbal abuse as he thought he could get away with. My new local friends rallied, my pack of friends from home rallied, and I was rescued from that house in a manner all too closely resembling a jail-break, when the delusional not-wolf was at his work.

Here, however, is where I want to explain how my wolf-self came back to me. You, too, may find yourself in need of returning to your animal-self (if you have one), and recognizing these steps may help you. Just remember that, as some of the human kids would say, Your Mileage May Vary.

The first step is the realization that you are trapped. You may have entered the trap accidentally or of your own free will, but you are indeed trapped. In my case, I'd set myself up to be trapped, and my humansuit was there to help me make every bad choice. As I said before, I couldn't really smell the lies until I got there, at which point even the humansuit's nose couldn't mistake it any longer.

Second, there is a flash of terror at the possibility of not ever escaping. The flash could last a moment or for days, depending upon how the humansuit reacts to it. There is a visceral component to this part of the discovery, and the humansuit has to process it through its limited abilities. This is its own version of L'Appel du Vide, and there is a sense of inevitability of your own death, or at least of the death of the true self. After all, the humansuit might or might not have been in physical danger; it is the Self that is truly in danger.

That is when the third step comes in: The realization that there is a true Self that is something other than the generally fragile humansuit. For some, such as those rare humans who still have a soul, it is to remember that they are connected to something greater than themselves, something beyond the merely corporal, merely temporal. For me, it was hearing the cry of the very essence of Wolf, calling me back to remember who I really am.

Much of this, I've told elsewhere, from the jail-break escape to the return, finally, to the house I should never have left in the first place. I've told about remembering my wolf-self elsewhere, too. This portion of the story needed just a little more telling. There is something that I left out of all of those other comments, all of those rants and stories and explanations. A lot of “somethings," actually. To explain that, I need to invoke the words of Emily Dickinson: “Tell the truth, but tell it slant."

I lost my wolf-self by believing too much of this humansuit's lies, which made me susceptible to the lies of a human pretending to be a wolf. When I regained my wolf-self, I realized that a humansuit might need to be rescued and saved, but a wolf cannot be made a pet to any mere human. Set free, a wolf can seek experience and explore his environment, even as his humansuit is breaking down with the terrors of trying to cope with betrayals, abandonment, and wondering just how well it will survive the wait for its return. The humansuit collapsed, and Wolf let me dream, and Dream, and See, and I began healing the humansuit.

There is a phrase used among the First Peoples, that of “dropping the robe." It refers to leaving the body behind and letting the naked spirit return to its original form. It will be a great liberation for me to leave this humansuit behind. It is cumbersome, worn with age and worry, and I long to reclaim my Self again. It is considered poor form to drop the robe before one's time, however, and Wolf would be disappointed in me were I to return to the Pack too soon. I must endure longer, it would seem. There are other animals in humansuits who need to know the stories I've yet to tell. I am still here to explore, to learn, before returning to the Pack to teach them. I took on this job from the beginning, from the moment of entering into this humansuit, having to struggle for decades to form some semblance of self before I was allowed to remember my wolf-soul. I thought all I craved was outside of me, first as a dream, then as a fiction, then as my written fiction, then as my personal fiction. It has taken most of my life to embrace the otherness, not as fantasy or escape, but as the central truth that I have had to tell, slant, for all this time.

So now the question, Constant Reader: How much of this is truth?

All of it. I tell the truth, so no one will believe me.