James, on Furry

James is not really into furry stuff, even to the extent I am. He comes to the conventions patiently, he mans the table, he is polite, he knows a few people and is happy to see them, but he is not himself inclined to furrydom. And not being involved in the fandom at all, there are only a few people he knows, whereas I have a reasonable working knowledge of at least the artist segment. So this is alien territory for him, and althoughe everybody is always very nice to him, and he’s polite and laid back and can watch fursuits go by without batting an eyelash, and is always kind to animals–but still, furry’s still just not his thing.

The other day, over dinner, he said “I think furry is like the military.”

“Huwah?” I said, through chicken salad.

“See, it’s got all this stuff that I think looks really cool, and I can totally see why people get into it, buuuuut–”

“–but you don’t want to enlist,” I finished.


We contemplated this for a moment. I was turning back to my meal when he whipped his head around and stared at me in dawning horror. “But–wait! You get me to these conventions for two weekends a year.”

I looked smug through my hot dog.

“And that means–I’m in the furry reserves!”

Heh heh heh heh…

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