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This story was written for the Yule/Christmas holiday season. The world-setting (containing the Genegineered and all related landmarks within this story's context), and the characters mentioned therein are owned by myself.

The Dog Who Has Everything

©2013 Sylvan Scott

Snow didn't usually fall on Christmas Eve. It typically had the decency to provide a light dusting in the weeks before or after the date. But this year it had done so in such quantities, so copiously, and on the day before, that air traffic was grounded for hundreds of kilometers. Not that it mattered to Rolfe. He had nowhere to go and no one coming in from out of town. In fact, if anything, the travel-stopping, meter-deep snowfall gave him one more excuse to not answer his father's call for him to try and drive six hundred kilometers to the farm where he'd grown up.

He didn't hate his parents. He didn't hold his sisters or brother in disdain. But they weren't his family. At times, that stung.

Walking through the dark, arms heavy and laden, he felt his solitude more acutely. Out here, out in The Alone, he was glad for the snow. It kept him from giving in, getting into his car, and making the five-hour drive. The pangs he felt to be with everyone else would drive him to do it despite the real family he had waiting for him.

Bright with light and music, his duplex was alive. The faerie lights he'd hung in the screen porch twinkled merrily in time to the music inside. A scraggly tree in the front yard was so covered with snow that the big, gaudy bulbs he'd strung were completely covered. They lent a muted glow to the evergreen as if glowing pixies had been frozen in its branches.

He shifted the bags of groceries in his hands, kicked the snow off his leggings and boots, and shouldered his way inside to join the party.

The door, its chipped and ancient biometrics sensor getting it right on the third time, recognized his bio-engineered genetics and opened with a tinny recording of "Hark: the Herald Angels Sing". It was drowned out by the much louder, drunken caroling of "Santa Baby" by Sam and Steve in the front room. Shaking the snow from his fur, Rolfe put both bags down and pulled off the light windbreaker he'd thrown on for his trip to the convenience store.

"You look like Father Christmas," Sam remarked.

Rolfe brushed caked snow and ice from his muzzle. "Ho-ho-ho," he said.

The genetic re-engineering that gave him canine characteristics was fantastic for weather like this. While his more pure-blood human neighbors were huddled indoors or struggling with the roads to get to Christmas Eve services, he was able to simply walk to where he needed to go and not worry about the weather. Additionally, his hearing, night vision, and sense of smell made walking on the treacherous roads much safer.

The color patterns of a Siberian Husky suited him more than his old human skin and hair.

His friends had gone in for gene-mods, too.

Sam, sporting a lynx's ruffs on his cheeks and ears, was the least-altered of them. But he at least had a decent layer of fat beneath his skin, keeping him warm in the cool house. His boyfriend, Steve, was a few years older, a few years wealthier, and had gone the full-mod route like Rolfe. He was a hare with rich, chestnut brown fur and black accents. He'd tried to dye his fur white for the festive party but it hadn't fully worked out. Instead, he had white blotches that would probably wash out in a few days.

Both of them had had their eyes tinted to match each other: deep, rich azure twinkled, merrily as they played music on the piano.

Rolfe felt a little bit of darkness thaw from within.

Myrtle took a drag on her incense stick and blew smoke through her nostrils. It smelled like pine and lilac. "Did you bring us gifts?" the shaggy collie asked.

Rolfe shook the last of the snow and reached into one of the bags. "Vodka, grenadine, and pulpless orange juice," he said. He tossed the bottles to her, one after the other. "I didn't get ice. I think you can scrape some together from the back porch."

She smiled and rose from the couch to give him a big, full-body hug.

He kissed her and winked. "I take it this is a good thing?"

"The best," she replied.

Steve was wrinkling his nose. "Do I smell chocolate in the bag? I thought dogs couldn't have chocolate."

"I didn't get a full conversion on my digestive tract," Rolfe reminded him. "Who would? I like being an omnivore. Besides, the worst that would happen is I get a little sick. Chocolate is _always_worth it." He pulled out several two-kilo bars and tossed them to the guys. "I'll melt them down for fudge, later," he said.

"I thought we were going to make snow-taffy," Sam asked.

"That comes at midnight," Steve said, kissing him. "It's tradition at all of Rolfe's parties."

"We used to do it when I was growing up in Berlin," the husky said. "I'll get the sugar melted and ready a few minutes before. Then we can drizzle it in the snow, bring it in, and pull."

He left the three as Myrtle suggested one of Lady Gaga's later-career, holiday hits, "Dress Me In Gingham". The outside-urge to leave and embrace the traditions of his youth melted a little bit more.

The house felt so alive on these two nights.

From December twenty-fourth through the twenty-sixth, the forty-eight hours weren't much. But what the days lacked in duration, they made up in intensity. He walked into his small dining room. Anton was playing Stixx with Brandon, Sukkot, and Shane. They were in various states of undress.

"Strip Stixx ... on Christmas Eve?" he asked, still warming. He could envision his father's reaction, easily and tried not to laugh.

"You know of a better time to play it?" the white ermine asked.

Unlike Steve, Anton hadn't had to dye his fur white. He wore it like this year-round.

He was an excellent gamer, always so perceptive of the moods and those around him, that his near-nakedness was probably due to choice rather than bad luck at the game. He held three eight-sided dice in one hand and a red stick in the other. Other than that, he wore only red underwear with mistletoe printed over his ample crotch and a ring of bells around the tip of his tail.

"Just take it downstairs before going too much farther," Rolfe said with a laugh.

"Only if you join me," Anton replied with a wink.

"He'll have to wait in line," Brandon said with a pout. His half-converted form was as artistic as the panther's job would indicate. A poetry editor for the college literary journal,Three Wishes, he'd gotten the fur, eyes, ears, and muzzle of a jungle cat but had his fur genegineered purple with black whorls and red accents. He was also not purely a "he" but, rather, was nearly a full hermaphrodite. The final modifications would take place in February enabling the panther to actually bear children. It was an unlikely he, or "shi", would find a fully genetically-compatible partner with whom to do so, though, considering the extent of "hir" modifications, but the changes were for personal reasons ... not public.

That was how it was with all of them in the "Gene Generation". They did it for themselves, not the approval of society.

Their hands of Stixx still bristling with plenty of blues, Sukkot and Shane (still dating this month) wore matching forms. Each was a lean, black rat with white tufts on their ear tips. Sukkot was female, currently, and Shane was considering trying out the other gender for the new year. Both still had most of their clothes on, unlike their gaming companions.

"Did you unlock the basement suite?" Sukkot asked.

"For you two?" Rolfe smiled. "Definitely." He put down a bag and fished a key from his pocket for the pair. "Just clean up when you're done," he said, tossing it to Sukkot.

"Always," the rat said with a wink.

The warmth filled Rolfe a bit more. The thoughts of a mad, late-night drive faded into the recesses of his subconscious. Why did he have to go this route every year? He missed the farm, sure, but its residents' different perspectives didn't jibe with him any more. On top of that, they wouldn't understand what he'd built for himself if they ever came to visit him.

Rolfe patted Shane on the shoulder as he walked past with his remaining groceries. "Don't let her wear you out."

"What fun would that be?" Shane responded.

As he left he heard the clattering of dice and the last of Anton's Stixx hit the table. He smiled, imagining the mustelid's glee at pulling off his final piece of clothing.

Inebriation in the living room and sexuality in the dining room, Rolfe was unsurprised to find gluttony in the kitchen. It wasn't like his parties had to be dens of sin ... they just usually turned out that way. Society was so bifurcated between traditionalists and hedonists that when the holidays came around, they seemed to be either one or the other ... never a blend.

He thought that was a missed opportunity.

Rothchild was decorating a cake with a caramel drizzle over chocolate icing and candied cherries. More of the frosting was on his ursine muzzle, though, than on the three layers of Genoise. Even taking into account the three large balls of hard-frozen ice cream that he'd caked in frosting before rolling in cinnamon-laden corn flakes, Rolfe knew the bear had eaten more than he'd used in making his desserts. Myrna, still licking a mixing spoon, looked just as sugar-filled. Her eyes had the manic energy of the ferret she'd had herself based on.

"Ooh! Did you get the rum?" she asked.

Rolfe nodded. "And more," he said, handing her the bag.

She took it and smiled. Roth looked over her shoulder and pouted. "Where's the chocolate?"

The husky shrugged. "In the living room with Sam and Steve."

The bear looked alarmed. "They'll eat it before midnight!" he exclaimed and trundled off to save the giant bars of confection.

Rolfe took one of the stuffed, roasted oysters on the banquet and slurped it down with a smile. The butteriness worked perfectly with the salt and shaved cheese. Everyone had brought something to share but Rothchild and Myrna had outdone everyone, as usual. Not only had Myrna managed to make a completely vegan turducken but had also brought a casserole of quinoa and fennel along with a pair of tofu-based French Silk pies. Roth, of course, had brought the steaks they'd eaten a few hours before and some whole-wheat trenchers. The sandwiches met everyone's needs, even the vegetarians. Roasted vegetables, soy-cheese, and herbs from the bear's garden were drizzled in the finest oils and touched with fragrances reminiscent of summer even in the depths of winter.

To top off their holiday feast, the two cooks had concocted a powerful punch that, last year, had knocked out both Myrna and Myrtle an hour into the party. They'd had to administer wakey-wakey drops to get them up and sober by midnight. This year, they were playing it safe. They all had some but were saving the majority of it for after midnight ... for after the taffy-pulling.

Rolfe chuckled. It was the holidays.

He withdrew a pre-wrapped package and tucked it under one arm.

"I'll be back in a bit," he said.

"Be sure you are," Myrna said. "We have a durian that we're going to use for making ice cream!"

The husky winced. "Please don't cut it open inside the house. I only got rid of last year's smells a month ago."

"That's pure hyperbole and you know it," the plump ferret said with a grin.

"Maybe." Rolfe winked and went through the back hall to the rear stairs.

The warmth and the light of the kitchen lingered as he left.

Tomorrow the two, along with all the rest of those at the party, would gather at the Raymond Cultural Center to make meals for the less fortunate. It would be the traditional capstone to their two-day celebration of the season. Rolfe and Myrna actually did it every weekend but for this celebration, they got everyone else involved, too.

More games (of a somewhat less sexual nature) were going on in the library. Passing by it and the back door, he waved to Rance and Russell as they played Twister with Angela and Masterson. While the latter looked human, he was still as genegineered as the others. Only his canine eyes betrayed his subtle modifications. Russell and Angela had been born wolves while Rance was an older man, a third-generation minotaur from Jersey. The fact that the others could play such a physical game with a man so huge, with such big horns, never ceased to amaze the canine homeowner.

He waved to them as he went past and ascended to the second floor.

His biological family, such as that term made any sense in the era of Designer Genes, wouldn't have understood. At times, he barely did. The animal forms were probably a fad, something that his generation and the two before had embraced. Time magazine said the trend was starting to ebb. But who believed that gossip rag, these days, anyway? It had been centuries since they had been relevant.

He remembered his father coming home with a bull's musculature and his mother calling it "the Devil's work". The farmer had spent a full season's profit on it, hoping it would enable him to personally oversee some of the harvest personally rather than pay for genegineered laborers. It had. However, given his mother's tight, conservative views, the changes been reversed soon afterwards. Besides, as a registered "heritage farm", the owners weren't supposed to personally have any genetic modifications to qualify for the government subsidy. They were a historic site. Real food production was mostly done by local maker-farms and individual printer co-ops. His own food-grade printer, in the basement, was good despite being a bit behind-the-times for some of the patterns he wanted to produce.

Again: his family wouldn't have understood.

They believed real food came from the ground or the pasture. It certainly had a richer, more complex flavor, Rolfe agreed. But seeing as it came with the extra strings of a more rigid social structure, he was glad to rely upon downloaded nuance patterns to add to the mix. In the end, he would rather trust some of the friends he'd made online, and their experimental patterns to download into his printer, than pay the premium for hand-grown ingredients.

The exception was the alcohol and chocolate. He couldn't afford the license fee to make his own: hence the trip to the store.

Passing one of the four, upstairs bedrooms, he looked in on Grace. She had headphones on and was listening to her latest composition. For three years running, it had been their tradition that the avian woman would sing a song of the season just after the taffy-pulling was done. Her voice, still natural, was beautiful even though it came through an owl's beak. Her hearing was augmented beyond that of all of them and her songs were amazing.

She didn't even open her eyes when Rolfe poked his head into the room. She just raised one hand to wave at him. The fleshy corners of her mouth, around the edges of her beak, turned up in a smile of recognition as he went by. Even the subtle sounds of her latest song, shrouding her concentration, couldn't muffle his passing from her feather-concealed hearing.

He went on.

The next bedroom, the one that had belonged to Harris before he had moved out, was playing host to another group of gamers. He knew five of them but the sixth was a newcomer to the party. Rolfe thought the cat's name was "Darius" or "Darren" or something. He wasn't sure.

Each had their implants logged into the old interface that had come with the house. On the wall screen, Rolfe could see them rampaging through an online MMORPG gathering virtual Christmas gifts and battling orcs. Ironically, each was playing a human. In the real world they were a veritable menagerie made up of two foxes, a wolf, a bear (that would be Hiram, Rothchild's brother), a tigress, and an alligator.

Dana, the alligator, was bundled up in an electric sweater to keep her warm in the cool house. It was festive, all green and red, and had a battery pack that would last for days, on her hip. Hers was the most extreme of the body modifications. Going fully cold-blooded wasn't uncommon but it was pretty radical. All of human society was built around a fairly standard temperature range ... not something easily eschewed.

The wolf was the newcomer and Rolfe nodded to him as he went past to his own bedroom.

He didn't like lingering at Harris' old room. He still missed his boyfriend. And, on this night of all nights, he didn't want to be reminded of sad times.

The previous year had been a roller-coaster.

He closed his bedroom door and sat on the bed. The room still smelled of wolf ... and not Darius or Darren, down the hall. Harris had been a seventh-generation Genie; one of the genegineered made for battle and liberated over a hundred years ago. A descendant of the "slavery of the genetic age" the two had seemed like a match made in heaven. But the differences between their respective cultures had proven too much. He wanted to part on good terms but, as usual, he hadn't been able to. That was the hardest part that his family hadn't understood.

"He's gay, too; can't you guys work it out?" his eldest sister had asked.

Despite sexual orientation and identity being fluid since the advent of affordable bio-engineering and societal acceptance, it was amazing how non-gender-fluid people still viewed such concepts as unifying ideas rather than just another aspect of the complex tapestry of a person's life.

"I'm not gay, I'm bi," Rolfe had told her.

It wouldn't matter. He mostly liked guys. She fixated on that.

His younger brother was gay and that was something she could wrap her head around.

But even though they had moved from Germany to live in the North American Union, they still didn't get his new life.

They didn't understand how he could want to be alone for the holidays. He wished they could understand that the only thing making him feel alone was their insistence that he feel that way without them.

He took the pre-wrapped gift box from under his arm and set it in his lap. He smiled as he hefted it in his shaggy hands. It was light. It didn't rattle. It was his gift to himself.

His family didn't understand his life because, gender or orientation aside, they weren't his family. Not really. And maybe that was the next big thing: families would become out-dated in their traditional sense. Honestly, he thought it had been going on since the twentieth century. Maybe Designer Genes would finally liberate them all. One day, perhaps, the last holdouts would get it.

This was his family.

All the drinking. All the sex. All the food. All the games. All the trouble and torment and happiness and life.

This was his family.

Even Harris was still his family.

Family were those who understood you.

Family were those who were with you when you needed them and for whom you were available. Family were who you celebrated the important dates with.

He loved his birth family, he owed them his upbringing, but it was a different kind of love.

The love for family, for family of choice, was more flexible ... more dangerous. It probably wasn't for everyone. But right now, right here, it was for him.

He opened his box and looked inside. He smiled at what he'd bought for himself.

"Merry Christmas," he said, quietly, and felt truly warm.

End