Morse

Screenshot of image search results featuring multiple generic graphics favoring black and blue.

Screenshot of image search results featuring multiple images of Alec.

Was searching for a reaction gif of @techconnectify.bsky.social and was getting pages of generic graphics...

so I set the Color filter to Brown and that cleaned my result set right up.

Black-and-white illustration titled Elder Wolf at the Table: Growing Older & Softer & Staying Wild by Shimi & Critter. A cozy tabletop scene shows a teapot, mugs, bowls, and a plate of bone-shaped biscuits. Scattered among the cups are three pamphlets with hand-drawn covers: Quality of Life for Wolves & Working Dogs (featuring two wolves), Preparing an Elder for a Pack (showing wolves greeting each other), and Senior Wolf Care (with a wolf portrait). The image evokes warmth, care, and companionship in aging, blending domestic gentleness with wild themes.

Black-and-white zine page featuring typewritten text over a wood-grain background, bordered by mock medical paperwork and labels. A small pencil drawing at the bottom shows three wolves sitting together affectionately, one nuzzling another. Text reads It begins with a kettle whistling and rain against the window. The air smells of mint tea and wet coats. I sit at the table, paws folded over paperwork that asks impossible questions: species, temperament, prognosis. Outside, a squirrel chatters at the fence. Inside, my reflection in the mug looks back - tired, yes, an elder, yes - and still wild. Aging has not made me less creature. It has made me gentler, slower to bite, quicker to rest. There is grace in that, I think - in softening without surrender, in learning to share the table instead of guarding the door. So pour a cup of tea for an old wolf. There's space beside me. We can talk about medicine, memory, and the art of staying wild while growing older, softer. Shimi & Critter

Black-and-white zine page titled Elder Wolf at the Table. At the top is an illustration of a table with a steaming cup of tea, a plate of bones, and several pamphlets reading “Senior Wolf Care,” “Quality of Life for Wolves & Working Dogs,” and “Preparing an Elder for the Pack.” Below the image, the text reflects on aging, identity, and transformation—interweaving themes of wolfhood, gender, and creaturely belonging. The narrator speaks with tenderness about yearning to shed humanity, to live as their true inner wolf, and to hold that yearning as a sacred and private form of prayer. ELDER WOLF AT THE TABLE It’s raining outside again, and the kitchen smells of wet coats, peppermint tea, and the faint paper-dust of leaflets. Someone has spread them out across the table: Senior Dog Care, Quality of Life for Working Breeds, Preparing an Elder for a Pack. They’re glossy, cheerful, full of photos of happy grey-muzzled dogs. My human pack-mates know I’ve been thinking about these things. All my life I had been questioning myself: my sexuality, my gender and now my very species. I was always the one to bark back at the dog passing by as he barked at something or other, and I would howl at the moon and watch the coyotes rifling through our trashcans with unhidden longing. And then my best friend one day announced she too was joining the Therionyl programme, I knew it was only a matter of time before I would put my name down for the Human Sentience Divestment protocol. I ached, I yearned to slough off my humanity like an ill-fitting skin and finally, become one with the critter, the little wolf inside my head. My pack-mates know I come at them slantwise, halfway between myth and medicine, halfway between church and den. It isn’t morbid. To me it’s a kind of secret and closely guarded prayer.

One of them picks up a leaflet and reads out loud, “Wolves live, on average, six to eight years. Captive wolves can reach sixteen.” They pause as they do the math in their head mouthing silently one human year to every seven canine years and suddenly they look at me and beam: “Well! You’re already an elder.” We all laugh. It’s a warm sound, clinking mugs and spoons. Someone says what everyone is thinking: “You’ll only be with us for a few more years if you complete this treatment.” “I’m not really afraid,” I tell them, dunking a dog-bone shaped homemade cookie into my tea. “I just think about how different the pacing is. If I have twenty more human years ahead as a woman, that’s a long wait to become what I want to be. But if I were fully wolf — eight, nine, maybe ten — that’s an elder’s life already. I’d join a pack as an elder. Nothing much changes. The apprenticeship’s already done.” Silence settles for a heartbeat, soft and not uncomfortable. Someone says softly, kindly, “You already are. You’re already the elder wolf at the table.” I reach for my mug. The rain taps the window. This, right here, feels like liturgy to me. I am the only religious one in the room, but over time my prayers have grown fur. I no longer picture heaven as a clean marble hall. I picture it as a warm, dry, muddy den. Not a throne but a breath on my neck. Not a hymn but a low throb of slow breathing packs through the soil. One asks, joking but not joking, “Will this…this Therionyl…will it get your hearing back?” and I shrug. Deaf wolves exist in the wild. I’ve been deaf for years; I would love to hear better. But that’s not the point. The leaflets don’t say, hearing restored. They say, quality of life is measured in moments of joy. Wolves don’t measure in years. They measure in seasons, in pups raised, in the smell of the den when everyone’s safe.

Elder Wolf at the Table is a love letter to aging, faith, & creaturehood—to the slow holiness of growing softer without losing wildness.
It’s about what happens when we grow old but not tame; when we learn to share the table & stop guarding.
Part reflection, part #therian prayer: a guide to gentler.

can I borrow a couple of bucks? 🦌🦌

#furry #furryart

BLFC will always be a cathartic experience

I have permanent love for all of you

“We didn't need a story, we didn't need a real world
We just had to keep walking
And we became the stories, we became the places
We were the lights, the deserts, the faraway worlds
We were you before you even existed”

No, and the world would be better if they'd just do it already.

A particularly insidious but common pitfall of community moderation is an understandable but wrong insistence on running things via strict adherence to a set of guidelines. This never actually works in practice because you end up with a bunch of bad faith actors constantly testing boundaries.

Happy Locktober to those who celibate. 🔐

Also a fan of Atavism

I am unconcerned with the thoughts of Vladimir Futon.

Haha you really can just point at things and have them be a cute little theme.

Couchtober
Lamptember
Dogtober
Civicunrestember
Revoltober
Trucktember
Biketober
...

It's been working well for me! My life has gotten so much better since I decided to say "Fuck it! Let's see where this road goes."

"Toward the kill lovingly taken, or the bowl lovingly given."

What a haunting phrase. I feel that line will live with me as long as I remember words.

Just buy used veterinary equipment on eBay, lol.

Fuck you in particular.

Freaking, Right!?

I'll compromise on non-violence because unfortunately I'm the only one who has correct opinions and don't want other people thinking I need a punch in the mouth.

Some people need to be punched in the mouth.

Developmentally, they require this to grow. Our brains were made to respond to consequences, not words.

But it must be administered by someone who will pick you up off the asphalt and get a beer with you after. We are also made for connection.

I'm ready to have so many bad opinions!

Thank you for this incredible work of art @labradorszn.bsky.social

You don't have a choice.

FURRY ARTISTS WILL REMAKE THE WORLD - Artillery Magazine

Eileen Townsend's review of Room Party is out now in Artillery Magazine! Eileen isn't a furry, but she is my bff, and she really, really GETS IT.

Featuring @attyboy.bsky.social @flausch.bsky.social @scribblechicken.bsky.social @zubrovich.bsky.social @julianahuxtable.bsky.social @elfboys.com & more!

A protest form from the Sports Car Club of America national autocross championships, alleging that a trans woman is not eligible to compete in ladies classes for [reasons]. Ruling of protest committee is that the protest has no basis and protesting party is an asshole.

Competitors (the not-asshole kind) in the SSC Ladies class at the SCCA Solo Nationals show support for their colleague who was protested for competing in a class she was not eligible for (spoiler alert: she totally was eligible).

Sometimes, motorsports gets it.
SCCA Solo Nats competitor is protested on Day 1 in a ladies class for being trans. Protest committee rules aggrieved party should get fucked into the sun. Day 2 the rest of class shows support for the protested party on way to her first run. She would go on to win.

The therian urge to ride a motorcycle through the woods at speed.

I'm on the edge of my uncomfortable, creaking, wooden bench seat with anticipation.

And everyone is on the spectrum.

I think the fact that I came in late makes this funnier.

We can only hope.

Can't believe I live with some of this stuff practically in my back yard and have never been.

It was so good! Driving a car feels wrong after a week on a bike.

The most incredible journeys are with the most incredible people.

Six days on the Oregon BDR.

I need to get lap dances from more boys with your kind of body.