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A Dinner with Family

By Horatio Husky

Commissioned by Miles T.F. Baxxter

The scent of well-seasoned meats steaming off of the stove coupled with the tantalizing aroma of vanilla rose up loftily from inside of the oven. Miles' household kitchen was in full swing and bustling with activity. Several arctic foxes of various sizes and separated by several generations contributed to the pre-dinner hubbub. Two brothers stood exchanging joking commentary and conveniently blocking access to the oven. Their grandmother, who firmly nudged them out of the way with a bump of her hips white tail swishing, peered critically at the rising dough through the oven door glass.

Pushing past the legs of their uncles only to have their cries of, "Hey kiddo!" and "Whoa slow down there!" exclaimed after them, a gaggle of three arctic fox kits aged four, five, and seven jostled one another in their game of living room tag. Their excitement for the big meal to come only further motivated their wild chase, causing Miles' stomach to flip upside down as he saw them veer perilously close to his rather valuable vinyl collection.

The arctic fox had been somewhat chagrined to find that it was his turn to be the host for the annual family get-together this year. He had been indirectly reminded of this fact when his grandmother had called him to inquire whether or not he owned a gas-powered oven. While he listened to her give him a well-practiced speech on why she refused to bake with anything remotely resembling an electric appliance, a pained expression came over his muzzle when he finally recalled why she was posing such a question to him.

"Yeah... Gramma, it's gas-powered. You'll be fine."

He had assured her, hoping that she would not pick up on the distinct lack of enthusiasm in his voice. His grandmother continued on, having decided that she would be delivering her speech on the superiority of gas-light appliances to the end. Miles' mind was elsewhere as he did his best to pretend to listen, already thinking ahead of the inevitable mess and stress that would come with hosting over thirty people at his home.

Just one night... Then everybody cleans up and leaves... Just one night...

He silently reminded himself, adopting a smile that he hoped appeared the pinnacle of familial tolerance as his eyes met with one of his older cousins. The other arctic fox, appearing similar to Miles himself save for a few stark silver furred streaks in his headfur, clapped him conspiratorially on the shoulder.

"Thinking about hosting annually from now on?"

"Good one, Luke."

Miles replied, his voice dripping with poorly concealed sarcasm, but his expression softened somewhat as he laughed at his cousin's poignant comment. They started to chat, as Luke was one of the only family members Miles was able to carry small talk with. They stood next to each other and watched with some amusement as the cooks finally decided to push all the kitchen loiterers out of their workspace for the final phase of dinner preparations. The older furs started to herd the kidfurs towards their table, clearing off the remains of coloring books and scattered crayons in place for brightly colored cups, paper plates covered with depictions of baby animals, and childsafe cutlery.

Tearing his attention away from the brightly colored dinnerware, the two furs padded into the kitchen and made themselves useful by carrying the various casserole dishes and ceramic pots filled with steaming mashed potatoes, seasoned asparagus, and Miles' personal favorite, macaroni and cheese. His stomach rumbled as he set down a wide plate piled high with chicken drumsticks. The fox felt a tail brush against his thigh, and he glanced sideways to peer over his glasses at his favorite, and only, aunt.

"Auntie!"

"Miles!"

They exchanged toothy smiles, settling down in chairs adjacent to one another even as the rest of the lively guests still stood around engrossed in animated conversation. Miles took some solace from the fact that he would be sitting next to arguably the most level-headed of his family members. He knew as well that amongst all of his siblings, Aunt Trisha had harbored a not-so-secret degree of favoritism for him when it came to her nieces and nephews. To add to his sense of relief, she was also very comfortable with carrying the majority of the conversation by herself.

"Hungry?"

"Starved."

He replied bluntly, feeling his salivary glands move into overdrive as he beheld the glistening feast in front of him. It would be one thing to eagerly tear into the food and abstain from the dinner conversation, but another to start drooling into his lap. He swallowed, and following the polite pause as everyone simultaneously noticed that their grandfather had already dug in, leaned forward and began to heavily load his plate.

"Peas?"

"Please!"

After allowing his aunt to deposit a generous helping of peas glistening with melted butter, Miles dug in. Ears perked and swiveled in the direction of Trish, he listened appreciatively as she prattled off the places she had traveled to over the past year. Miles cut into a breast, lifting up the juicy morsel and taking a gratifying bite.

Mmm... Gramma's Recipe...

The arctic fox was about to sample the mashed potatoes, when he felt the eyes of Aunt Trisha staring pointedly at him. He glanced over, his mouth half open and forkful of mashed potatoes hovering halfway through his mouth.

"What?"

Trish nodded, pointing with her chin towards the fox's lap. Following her gaze, he alighted on a fresh stain on the front of his red t-shirt.

Red... Red...?

Miles stared down at the clothes he was wearing, wondering how the clean white button-up and jeans he had put on that morning had miraculously turned into gym shorts and a tee. He frowned, Auntie Trish noting his perplexed expression and assuming that he was more troubled by the stain than he was letting on.

"That's alright kiddo, it'll come out in the wash."

She ruffled his head, the sensation of paw pads tousling through his headfur a feeling which Miles had not felt for quite some time. He blinked, feeling his pulse quicken as his sense of confusion transformed into one of embarrassment at being treated in such a diminutive fashion. He blushed, unable to meet with his aunt's gaze as he sat up a little straighter and reached towards his plate one more.

Something about the distance between himself and the rim of the table had changed, as the arctic fox now found it harder to reach his glass of sparkling water than when he had poured it out for himself. Clumsy paws bumped awkwardly against the outside of the glass, which teetered for a moment on its foot before falling over and spilling its contents onto the tablecloth.

"Miles! Be careful," his mother exclaimed, slipping out of her chair and padding over to him.

"I told you he's still too young to sit at the adult's table, they're still so excitable at that age," came a dry chiding from his grandfather, who appeared rather engrossed in attempting to strip the drumstick clutched between his paws as void of meat as possible.

Miles' mother was now behind him, towering over him as she dabbed at the soaked tablecloth with her own lap napkin. The little arctic fox was speechless, equally confused as to why his mother was now at least twice as tall as him as he was being called 'too young' when he had just turned thirty that winter. Confused and beginning to feel upset, the fox kidfur was unable to think of a response before his paws were gently taken in his mother's own. She half lifted him out of his seat before guiding him over to the kid's table where the many colorful cups and plates awaited him.

Sheepishly, he sat down in the plastic chair now a peer amongst his many nieces

and nephews. His furrowed brow deepened as he saw that his outfit had appeared to unexpectedly change once more. No longer was he wearing a shirt and pants, but now the goofy smile of the Bear in the Big Blue House looked up at him from the front pocket of a pair of shirtalls. The little fox shifted in his seat, noting another part of his wardrobe that kept his scruffy, fox legs slightly spread apart. Garbed in the stereotypical attire of the average toddler, Miles became acutely aware of the fact that he was now sporting a pair of pull ups that felt suspiciously damp.

"Eat up, kit."

His mother crooned softly into his ears, her warm breath gently tickling the sensitive skin inside of his fluffy ears. Leaning over him once more, she started to arrange a pile of tater tots onto a plate. Distracted, the fox kit's attention was drawn away from the recent confusing series of events to the meal at hand.

Nuggets!

Miles thought to himself, carefully dipping a T-Rex shaped chicken nugget into a pool of ketchup in a nook on his paper plate before giddily cramming it into his muzzle. He grinned, chomping down on the little piece of breaded chicken and wiping his ketchup covered paws on the front pants leg of his overalls. The little fox was about to reach for another, when he felt two strong paws wrap themselves underneath his armpits. They lifted him up out of his kiddy chair almost immediately after having just sat down.

"Messy! I think it's time we get a bib on you!"

Bewildered, Miles stared blankly at his Aunt Trisha who had just hoisted him onto her hip with relatively little effort. She smiled serenely back at him with the kind of detached affection smile only a family member with no real parental duties could enjoy. Gently booping the white furred kit on the nose, she carried him back over to the main table. There, he saw a wooden high chair painted an eggshell white that was waiting, presumably, just for him.

Struggling for a few seconds with the straps, his Aunt Trisha had him secured in the five-point harness that snuggly fastened over his chest, around his hips, and between his legs. All the while, he had stared dumbfounded up at his Aunt, unable for the moment to fathom how on earth she had gotten so much bigger than him. It was only after the plastic tray table of the high chair was slid into place over his lap did he glance down once more at his outfit.

His legs were now bare, allowing anyone to gently stroke the remarkably soft leg fur of a babyfur his age. Miles saw that he was now dressed in nothing more than a white onesie; it displayed the handsome face of Prince Kion grinning up at him as if amused by the sight of Miles. Beneath the onesie, as Miles shifted against the confines of the highchair harness, the little kit felt the telltale bulk of a diaper softly cushioning his fluffy rear end.

The fox's cheeks developed a rosy hue as he blushed softly, his heart fluttering momentarily at the nostalgic sensation of having a diaper comfortably keeping his legs apart. The knowledge that the absorbent padding was there just in case he might have any accidents during dinner stirred a strange yet familiar sensation inside of the little fox. Engrossed in an emotion he could not fully comprehend, he felt something tickle the base of his neck and, glancing down, saw that a bib with a picture of a yellow duckling on its front had just been fastened onto him.

"Hey Miles, is the airport open today?"

Miles looked up, his wide, blue, innocent eyes alighting on the spoonful of mashed potato held in front of him. As he considered the offering, his stomach answered for him by emitting a soft gurgle. He had only managed to get a few morsels that evening, after all.

Opening his muzzle wide, Aunt Trisha hummed appreciatively in response to his receptiveness. She wasted no time, taking full advantage of his cooperative mood to fill him up with more mashed potatoes, pureed carrots, small pieces of chicken, and finishing it off with several spoonfuls of chocolate pudding. The little kit greedily licked his lips, his legs kicking out happily from underneath the tray, giving his Aunt a chocolate covered beam of appreciation as she offered him more.

"We've got a good boy tonight! Look at you go!"

Trisha cheered, her own tail flicking occasionally as if to accompany Miles' steadily swishing brush with staccato punctuations. The little arctic fox was just about to happily accept another spoonful when he felt something lurch in his tummy. There was no stopping it, even as the sensation of pressure registered he could feel himself losing control. He leaned forward, the straps holding him back as he attempted to shift into a position that might offer him better leverage.

Miles grunted shortly, his breath catching, before letting out a whimper that was barely audible. His aunt appeared to be aware of what was happening even as the first muffled sounds of flatulence erupted from the little kit's rear end. His face tightened slightly, biting down on the corner of his lips and closing an eye as the gaseous release solidified. The conversation at the table did not eb nor did any of the furs take any real notice of him as Miles promptly loaded the backseat of his diaper.

As an immense sense of relief washed over him, Miles relaxed and rested against the back of the high chair, panting slightly.

"Making room for more, I presume?"

His Aunt Trisha, who had just witnessed the entire scene with no more of a reaction than a raised eyebrow, smiled comfortingly as she offered the spoonful of pudding once more. His little baby brain reeling at the prospect of more chocolate pudding, Miles obediently reopened his little muzzle for another morsel. Some of the family members sitting closest to him instinctively furled their noses and glanced suspiciously over at the baby fox, even as he continued to merrily gobble up the puddy, blissfully unaware of the mushy state of his thoroughly used diaper.