Рассказ Алекса Тарна "Фьюри" - перевод на английский
Оригинал здесь.
(c) Aleks Tarn, 2024
Translated by hudoi_ochkarik
Furry
Entering the geography classroom, Rikki Taviano tossed her registry onto the desk with a habitual gesture and pulled out the binder with the lesson plan and supplementary materials from her bag. The class was eerily silent, and by this unusual quiet, she sensed that something out of the ordinary was happening. A teacher with twenty years of experience feels these things instantly, with her back and the nape of her neck, without needing to look around or ask unnecessary questions. The dear children had clearly prepared some sort of surprise. But what?
Still without turning around, Rikki wondered what kind of trick to expect. High school students consider it beneath their dignity to engage in antics suitable for younger ages. Nonetheless, the teacher quickly inspected the seat for any pins and tested the desk surface-was it smeared with glue? No, all was in order. And it didn't smell of anything foul either. She stole a glance at the whiteboard-it too was clean, as innocent as a preschooler’s conscience: no inappropriate drawings, no provocative inscriptions.
Maybe the desk drawer? Once they had stuffed a live sparrow in there, and the bewildered bird had burst right into Rikki's face to the great delight of twelve-year-old tormentors. But then again, those were not high schoolers… Although, the older ones might well recall their golden childhood. In any case, better not to open the drawer just yet. One thing was certain: such deafening silence was no accident. That’s how hunters lie in wait, that’s how an angler freezes at the sight of a bobber twitching. What had those little devils concocted?
The teacher sighed deeply and turned to the class with professional vigor, the students were all eyes on her. Let them stare, eyes aren’t teeth, they won’t bite off a finger. The main thing was to be vigilant and fearless. The trap set would soon reveal itself, and she could then, having laughed together with the fools, calmly continue the lesson. Thank God, this wasn’t her first rodeo. Those who have taught in schools are not intimidated by snake-infested jungles or an alligator swamp.
"So, friends, today we will review…" Rikki began, but paused, her eyes catching on the third desk from the door.
Muffled giggles followed, then someone laughed out loud, and finally, everyone burst out, celebrating the obvious discomfiture of the teacher. Though, she undoubtedly had reason to be flustered. There, on the third desk, sat someone unflappably in a dove costume: fake feathers glued to a sweater and pants, mock bird feet tied to shoes, and a huge papier-mâché bird head with a shiny tin beak and two round holes through which someone’s triumphantly twinkling eyes could be seen. But why "someone"? Clearly it was…
Rikki managed a laugh. When they laugh at you, it’s wisest to join in the chorus of mockers.
"Alright, Symon," she said, maintaining her spirited tone. "Let's consider the dove fashion show a success. We all appreciate your creativity. Now, please take off that cumbersome headgear because it is surely obstructing the board for those sitting behind you. You may keep the feathers and wings; perhaps they will help you improve your grades in my subject. Because so far, you, alas, have not shown yourself to be a high flyer in geography."
The class laughed again, appreciating the joke. Rikki breathed a sigh of relief: the incident seemed resolved. A sense of humor and goodwill are keys to the hearts of children. However, Symon Perski was not quick to comply with the teacher's request. To be precise, he did not react at all, not even stirring. Rikki stepped closer.
"Symon, did you hear me?"
She had to repeat the question twice before getting a response. Even then, it was not Perski who answered, but his blonde neighbor, Natalie.
"It's not Symon, teacher."
"Not Symon?" Rikki was surprised. "Then who is it, if not him?"
"It's Furry. Furry-Dove," Natalie explained. "And it's not 'he,' it's 'it.' It doesn't understand human speech."
"It understands when hit by a slingshot stone!" someone shouted out.
Furry-Dove made a protesting throaty noise and turned sharply towards the voice, clipping the teacher with its beak. Rikki yelped in pain: the sharp tin scratched her arm above the elbow. Blood appeared, but Furry-Dove was not at all disconcerted. It continued to cluck and coo angrily, paying no mind to the injured teacher. Rikki’s patience had run out.
"That's enough!" she exclaimed, clutching the wound on her injured shoulder with her palm. "Take off that abomination right now! Remove it or get out of the class!"
But Furry-Dove didn’t move. He stopped cooing and now silently, with one eye, in a completely bird-like manner, surveyed the teacher, slightly turning his fake head from side to side. The class, holding its breath, watched the unfolding drama. Choking with fury, Rikki grabbed the student by the collar, yanked him into the aisle, and dragged him to the door.
"Out! Get out! And don't come back until you look human again!"
After pushing Furry-Dove out into the corridor, she returned to the desk to bandage the wound with a scarf. This break and a minute or two of breathing exercises helped her to calm down somewhat. She had to continue. Continue no matter what. Rikki finished bandaging and turned to the class, which was eagerly absorbing every move, every word, every sigh of the teacher. If looks could be stones, she would have been stoned to death long ago. But tough luck, alligators…
"We'll continue with the topic of Latin America," she said as if nothing had happened. "Last session, we talked about the natural landscape. Today, we will briefly characterize the composition of mineral resources. So…"
The rest of the session went without any further incidents. The banished student did not return-to Rikki’s great relief.
* * *
At the end of the classes, she was asked to visit the principal's office. In the office, besides the principal himself, there were two others: Furry-Dove and a gaunt lady with a frozen expression of angry protest on her smoothly tightened face. With the flatness of her form and the relentlessness of her gaze, she resembled a living poster from a demonstration for the protection of animals and minorities against predatory capitalism and global warming.
"Please have a seat, Mrs. Taviano," the principal said with authoritative gentleness in his voice. "We've gathered here to discuss today’s… uh… incident and find a… uh… mutually acceptable solution."
Rikki perched on the edge of the chair.
"I insist on Symon's suspension," she said. "Not only did the student come to class in an inappropriate manner, threatening health and…"
"Hold on a moment, Mrs. Taviano," the principal interrupted. "I assume you do not object to our young ones' unconditional right to freely choose their personal identity?"
"Absolutely not, Mr. Principal," the teacher replied. "In my classroom the freedom of identity is fully respected."
"There you go!" the principal exclaimed delightedly and turned to the poster lady. "As you can see, Mrs. Perski, Symon can be entirely assured…"
A protesting coo emerged from under the dove head. The mother stirred.
"How many times do I have to explain: there is no Symon!" she hissed indignantly. "Before you stands a furry! A furry who identifies itself as a dove! That is, Furry-Dove! Is that not clear? Or are you deliberately insulting my… my… my…"
The lady swallowed the end of her sentence, still confused about the correct choice of the last word. The principal hastily waved his hands.
"Of course not, dear Mrs. Perski," he exclaimed. "Furry-Dove-that’s wonderful! That’s great! No objections. I assure you: the school has no intention of discouraging student self-expression. Furthermore, we will not tolerate even a hint of disrespect for the freedom to choose one's identity. Isn’t that right, Mrs. Taviano?"
A tense silence hung in the office. Rikki shivered, pinned to the back of her chair by the pins of five eyes: two from the principal, two from the poster lady, and one dove eye. It took effort for her to squeeze out a forced agreement.
"Well… If that's how the issue is being framed, then, of course…"
"Excellent!" the principal summed up cheerfully. "So, a solution has been found. Symon… sorry, Furry-Dove may attend classes in a manner that fully corresponds to his personal identity. Well then? Shall we consider the incident resolved?"
He addressed Mrs. Perski, but it was Furry-Dove who responded with a furious clucking, waving its tin beak back and forth. The principal listened, slightly tilting his head, with an expression of benevolent attention.
"What he is saying, Mrs. Perski?"
The lady snorted indignantly:
"First of all, it's not 'he,' it's 'it'! And secondly, it demands an apology."
"An apology?" the principal asked, puzzled, and turned to Rikki. "Well, I assume Mrs. Taviano doesn’t mind. Right, Rikki? You regret your thoughtless act? Very much so?"
"I regret…" the teacher muttered. "I'm sorry…"
Furry-Dove nodded its beak and triumphantly cooed. The principal looked worriedly at the poster lady:
"What did he… sorry, what did it say?"
"It demands that the apologies be made publicly, in front of the class," the lady translated.
"I believe that's also not a problem, right, Mrs. Taviano?" Not waiting for the teacher's response, the principal stood up, his demeanor affirming the successful conclusion of the negotiations. "I'm glad our discussion has reached a common denominator. Thank you for coming. My office is always open to students and their parents. Mrs. Perski… Furry-Dove…"
He escorted the Perskis to the door with all due ceremony, then returned to his desk and to Rikki, who still sat motionless on her chair, her head bowed and her gaze fixed on her bandaged arm.
"Ah, Rikki, Rikki… How on earth did you get yourself into this mess?"
She shrugged:
"I don’t know… That scoundrel injured me. Look at this scratch…"
The principal sighed. Young and promising, he had been appointed only two years ago but had already firmly learned that no scandal ends well, so it's better to prevent them altogether. Otherwise, he might have to fire this foolish old teacher…
"What does the scratch have to do with it? Have you never heard of furries? No? It's a fresh youth movement. A new kind of identity, in addition to gender. If a boy feels like a girl, they help him get rid of his male appendages, don't they? Well then. Why shouldn’t another boy or girl, or transgender, or anyone else from the current equal genders feel like a dove or a cow?" He paused for a second and corrected himself: "Though, no, not a cow-they negatively impact the climate… Well then-a guinea pig or, say, a giraffe. What's the problem?"
"There's no problem…" Rikki confirmed dully. "If a boy can feel like a girl, then he can feel like a guinea pig. You are absolutely right."
"Great," the principal rubbed his hands. "So, we agree: you will publicly apologize to Furry-Dove, and I… I can expect that such incidents will be completely excluded from your future teaching practice. Because otherwise, no union can protect you. You understand: suppressing adolescent identity. This is taken very seriously now."
Rikki left the office, focusing solely on placing her feet correctly so as not to fall. Her cheeks burned with humiliation-both from what had just happened and what she anticipated in the future. The unequivocal threat of dismissal left her no choice, as she could not imagine herself outside the teaching profession. Lately, it didn’t take much to find oneself out on the street with a mark of shame. To receive the brand of a fascist. To come home and find the garage gate smeared with tar. To have a bucket of filth dumped on your head in public. For your son to be bullied during school breaks. To have to flee from your hometown without much hope of catching your breath before rumors of your harmful nature reached your new refuge.
The exemplary punishments of several colleagues who were slow to align with the new progressive currents made this painfully clear. The boundaries of possibility had narrowed to the width of a thin mountain trail. A sheer wall on one side, a bottomless abyss on the other-there was no stepping aside, no stopping, no slowing down. Essentially, one could not even sway. One was only permitted to march-in step with everyone else, without breaking the general rhythm. No, she could not allow even the slightest hint of disobedience.
But her cheeks, nevertheless, burned as if slapped hard. And the humiliation was most painfully felt in front of the sneaky boy Perski, the newly proclaimed Furry-Dove. Precisely in front of him. Because she couldn’t care less about the milksop-principal-a typical son of a bitch, a springy jack-in-the-box groomed for a political career. Another year or two, and he would leap from the school to another administrative position-leap and immediately be forgotten. And she doesn't give a damn about the flat-chested poster mom-how many of those crazy sexless harpies are there, spewing venom at city crossroads?
But Furry-Dove… - it would hardly be possible to soon erase from memory the triumphant gleam of his eyes through the cut-outs in the fake papier-mâché. The young villain simply radiated an assurance of impunity. Although, no, it's incorrect to speak of impunity… Punishment indeed followed-it’s just that it was not he who was punished, but the teacher. The audacious teacher who dared to contradict the true master of the situation. Would he stop there? Very doubtful. It’s she and others like her who are balancing on a narrow path, while before him stretches an endless smooth field-steer wherever you fancy… Why brake when you can accelerate to your heart’s content?
* * *
Two months later, when Rikki entered her son's room, she found him making a papier-mâché mask.
"Furry?"
He nodded guiltily:
"Can't help it, Mom. It's necessary nowadays…"
Her son didn't finish the sentence, but she knew the rest: it's dangerous. Without this, it's now dangerous. Either become a furry or prepare for trouble. What kind exactly? There was still some ambiguity about that.
"I hope you got permission?"
"Of course, Mom, how else… Here…" - he took a piece of paper from the table. - "I'm allowed to be a Gopher-Furry. By the way, I recommend it for you too. You could definitely go for a Mongoose-Furry. Rikki Taviano - it's almost Rikki-Tikki-Tavi."
"Are you out of your mind?" exclaimed Rikki in surprise. "That's strictly a children's game, what do adults have to do with it?"
"Not at all," the boy objected, carefully smearing glue on the gopher head model. "They say some teachers have already applied. And the principal too."
Rikki sighed. Starting with a single Furry-Dove, the movement quickly gained new participants. Initially, all volunteers were accepted, but after three to four weeks, the spontaneous process of furrization was organized by the emergence of the Furry-Troika, consisting of Furry-Dove, Furry-Hyena, and Furry-Boa. They reviewed potential candidates, and in case of a positive decision, issued a license for a particular furry-identity. The Troika's verdicts were not subject to appeal; self-appointed furry-illegals discovered by furry-patrols were severely punished, and the tattered remnants of their costumes were ceremonially burned in the courtyard.
Soon, the school definitively split into two roughly equal parts: a pack of privileged furry-beasts and a cowed, humiliated, subjugated human herd. Classes continued according to the curriculum, but turned into meaningless time-wasting, filled with barking, squeaking, whistling, hooting, growling, bleating, and other sounds characteristic of forests, barns, savannas, and livestock farms. Entering the classroom daily, Rikki preemptively plugged her ears and tried not to look at the desks, forcing herself to imagine that she was teaching in a completely empty room.
Per the principal’s directive, grades were initially issued based on past performance from the irretrievably gone era of homeworks, quizzes, and thematic exams. However, control over academic performance soon passed to a special furry-committee appointed by the same Troika. Now, Rikki and other teachers were expected to sign off weekly on grade sheets already adorned with excellent marks for furry-students.
Announcing this new order at a faculty meeting, the principal expressed his extreme pleasure in sharing responsibilities with the school self-governing bodies. He remarked that democracy, equality, and the fraternity of free identities undoubtedly heralded a bright future. Naturally, there were no objections. On the contrary, everyone unanimously agreed that, despite some problems, nothing bad was happening in the school, only good, very good, and excellent things. However, the word “problems” was promptly excluded from the discussion, replaced by a more precise term: “challenges.”
Among these “challenges,” the physics teacher, Mrs. Valeria Newyard, mentioned a recent beating of a furry-illegal that ended with an emergency call and the victim's hospitalization.
“I visited the boy yesterday,” said the physicist. “The poor thing hasn’t come out of the coma yet. Frankly, I couldn’t understand why they had to amputate his arm. Imagine: the doctors claim he was brought in already one-armed, that is, with a stump. It’s barbaric and…”
The principal stopped her with a decisive gesture.
“Nonsense and lies, Mrs. Newyard! Why would anyone rip off a student’s arm, tell me? To eat it?” He grimaced comically. “Laughable, simply preposterous! We all know furries are principled vegetarians, because it’s both eco-friendly and progressive. And as for the coma… Before condemning a natural culture unfamiliar to us, we should look in the mirror. Who do we see there, ladies and gentlemen? White colonizers, cruel oppressors of native peoples, destroyers of nature. We cut down forests, kill defenseless animals, and are about to destroy the beautiful planet we dare to call our own. Our own, ladies and gentlemen! But it does not belong to us. Not to us, ladies and gentlemen! It belongs to the world of nature - to animals, plants, furries… They were here before us, weren’t they? Thus, they have every right to decide who to admit to their ranks, and who is merely tagging along, ready to betray tomorrow.”
The faculty silently agreed, nodding in recognition of the principal’s obvious correctness. Only Mrs. Newyard shook her head doubtfully, completely out of sync with the general mood.
“Well, Mrs. Newyard?” said the principal, a note of irritation in his voice. “Are you dissatisfied again?”
The physicist shrugged.
“Perhaps I need additional efforts or even training to correct my insufficiently progressive approach,” she guiltily said, “but some things that were recently considered unacceptable at school… Just today, walking down the third-floor corridor, I witnessed something absolutely… absolutely…”
Mrs. Newyard blushed deeply and covered her face with her hands. The principal slapped the table impatiently:
“Stop mumbling! What did you see?”
“Mating…” she whispered barely audibly. “Right in front of other children. A Furry-Wolf openly mating with a Furry-Sheep… He was growling, she was bleating, it was something… something…”
“So what?” interrupted the principal. “What’s so bad about that? Isn’t it natural, progressive? Is it not foretold by the biblical prophets: 'And the wolf shall dwell with the lamb'? There they are, lying together! A centuries-old dream has come true! You should be rejoicing, yet you protest… However you wish, Mrs. Newyard, but your dark-minded approach needs immediate correction."
* * *
The progressive principal proved to be prophetic. A month later, Rikki Taviano, formerly a geography teacher and now Furry-Mongoose-Rikki-Tikki-Tavi, found herself an unwilling witness to the radical correction of the benighted physicist through the tin beak of a Furry-Dove. Mounted atop the lifeless body of Mrs. Valeria Newyard, he methodically pecked at her chest, each time tearing away small pieces of flesh. Bloody fragments flew several meters; the surrounding furries caught them in mid-air and stuffed them into their mouth openings. A red pool spread across the floor.
Overcoming nausea, Furry-Mongoose-Rikki-Tikki-Tavi made her way to a free classroom. First, she barricaded the entrance, freed her head from the cumbersome mongoose head model, caught her breath, and dialed the number of Itamar Gvir, the city police chief and her former classmate. After listening to her agitated account, Gvir sighed sympathetically and noted that doves were the cruelest creatures in nature, though commonly thought otherwise.
"If you have to choose, it's better to die from a wolf," he said. "A wolf clamps onto the throat, tears the vein with one motion - and it's over, a quick and painless death. But damn doves will peck with their little beaks for hours - you'll suffer agonizingly before you die. Well, you saw it yourself, you know."
"Is there no choice?" Rikki asked. "You talk as if you aren't in command of a hundred armed cops. Can't you restore order? They're killing people, Itamar. Adults, children, elders - everyone they come across. They feed on human flesh, even though they're vegetarians."
"Yes, I'm aware," the police chief chuckled. "We were required to undergo training. You see, according to the progressive science, furries are even more peaceful and progressive than vegetarians. They've pledged to protect nature, hence they don’t eat meat, dairy, or plant-based foods. Only special food composed of elements that are hostile to nature and progress."
"That is, of humans?" the teacher clarified.
Gvir sighed again:
"That turns out to be the case. But furries don't use words like 'humans' or 'people.' They just call it 'food.' By consuming food, furries nourish themselves and simultaneously rid nature of its worst enemies, converting them into useful progressive compost. It's a win-win all around."
"I can't believe my ears!" Rikki exclaimed. "How can you reconcile with this nightmare? You're a policeman, Itamar! Order your cops to get in their cars, turn on the sirens, and come here. I assure you, you won’t need to shoot: ordinary batons and handcuffs will suffice to bring these fiends to their senses!"
Gvir paused before responding.
"Do you know where I am sitting right now, Rikki?" he finally said. "In my office, locked in. I have a revolver with three magazines on my belt, a shotgun on the table with a supply of cartridges. My wife and kids are with me - the two youngest. My eldest is now a cannibal, a Furry-Jackal. A disgrace to my gray hair. If only it were a leopard or even an ostrich - but a jackal! Understand? My wife and I raised a jackal! It’s unthinkable… And two-thirds of those you call my cops are roaming the corridor right now in the form of gorillas, orangutans, and rhinoceroses. Honestly, many here resembled gorillas even before this madness. I can’t do anything, even if I really wanted to."
Rikki sobbed.
"So, it's the end? So, there's no other way out but to just sit, hands folded, and wait to be pecked, eaten, swallowed?"
"Hands folded, flippers glued, paws crossed…" the police chief bitterly chuckled. "Depends on what kind of knob you have on your head."
"You always had a particular sense of humor."
Gvir laughed:
"What else do I have left? Only this disease can end itself now. All power is with them. Forget the police, the army, the authority, the former human norm. It’s just them everywhere: furries and their allies."
After ending the conversation, Rikki sat motionless for a while, struck by a sudden thought. Then, she exhaled sharply and dialed the number of the Animal Protection Society. A cheerful female voice answered:
"Hello, this is Chicko Castra. How can I help you?"
"Good afternoon, dear Chicko," Rikki began ingratiatingly. "We are in dire need of your emergency assistance here. In the building where I am, hundreds of homeless animals are dying from starvation, cold, and diseases. You simply must help them!"
"Please provide the address," the girl responded promptly. "We'll come and…"
"One moment," Rikki interrupted her. "I would like to know what measures you usually take. What is the procedure for helping these unfortunate animals?"
The interlocutor clicked her tongue understandingly:
"We deeply appreciate your concern for the helpless four-legged and winged patients, but there's no need to worry. Our actions are standard; the Protection Society operates strictly following protocols approved by international organizations. With a significant number of homeless animals-as seems to be the case here-the procedure includes general anesthesia through mass sedation, a thorough veterinary examination, vaccinations for distemper and rabies, and, of course, painless prevention of reproduction."
"Mass sedation… Rabies vaccinations…" Rikki repeated. "That's just wonderful. And how is reproduction prevented?"
"By castration," Chicko Castra explained readily. "Castration of males and sterilization of females. Snip-snip - and it's done. We leave behind healthy, peaceful, and happy animals, free from the senseless displays of aggression typical of uncontrolled breeding."
"Excellent," Rikki said, trying unsuccessfully to calm her wildly beating heart. "Write down the address."
Then she stood at the window, blindly staring at the schoolyard, repeating like a mantra the phrase said by the besieged police chief in his office: "Only the disease can end the disease… Only the disease can end the disease… Only the disease can end…"
The column of veterinary buses arrived relatively quickly.
* * *
Upon entering the classroom, Rikki Taviano threw a register onto the desk with a habitual motion and pulled out a binder from her briefcase containing the lesson plan and supplementary materials. Without even turning around, she could feel the frightened silence of the class through her back and the nape of her neck. They fear the test, poor little castrates… Rikki turned to the students.
"Do not be afraid, friends, there will be no test today. But those who have studied well the material from the last lesson have a chance to improve their final semester grade. Any volunteers?"
Symon Perski timidly raised his hand.
"Symon? Well done! Please, come to the board. Tell us about the minerals of Guyana. Come on, don't be afraid, no one is going to eat you."
Rikki walked over to the window. Symon Perski, formerly Furry-Dove and the undisputed leader of the Furry-Troika, muttered behind her back the diligently memorized lesson. The rest listened attentively, maintaining impeccable discipline. At moments like these, the teacher was overwhelmed with pity for the mutilated and sterilized children. Maybe she was wrong? Maybe it was not necessary…
Her leisurely train of thought was interrupted by the thunderous clash of drums, the screech of megaphones, and the unified chanting of hundreds of trained voices. A demonstration in defense of minorities, rats, and termites-oppressed by white colonizers and suppressed by the predatory capitalism that maliciously warmed the innocent climate-crawled past the street outside the windows. Above the ragged column of hysterical young people, wrapped up to their eyebrows in checkered black-and-white scarves, fluttered red, yellow, green, rainbow, and four-colored flags; here and there, menacing posters depicting blood-stained, fanged fascists trampling children’s skulls could be seen. Symon stopped speaking in fright, and Rikki turned back to face the quieted classroom.
"Do not be afraid, friends, nothing terrible is happening. Symon, please continue, just a bit louder…"
The murmuring resumed, partially drowning out the noise from the street. "Everything is right," Rikki decided, nodding kindly and encouraging the castrate with a gentle gaze. "There are generations that simply don't deserve the right to reproduce. There are, aren't there?"
(c) Aleks Tarn, 2024
Translated by hudoi_ochkarik
Furry
Entering the geography classroom, Rikki Taviano tossed her registry onto the desk with a habitual gesture and pulled out the binder with the lesson plan and supplementary materials from her bag. The class was eerily silent, and by this unusual quiet, she sensed that something out of the ordinary was happening. A teacher with twenty years of experience feels these things instantly, with her back and the nape of her neck, without needing to look around or ask unnecessary questions. The dear children had clearly prepared some sort of surprise. But what?
Still without turning around, Rikki wondered what kind of trick to expect. High school students consider it beneath their dignity to engage in antics suitable for younger ages. Nonetheless, the teacher quickly inspected the seat for any pins and tested the desk surface-was it smeared with glue? No, all was in order. And it didn't smell of anything foul either. She stole a glance at the whiteboard-it too was clean, as innocent as a preschooler’s conscience: no inappropriate drawings, no provocative inscriptions.
Maybe the desk drawer? Once they had stuffed a live sparrow in there, and the bewildered bird had burst right into Rikki's face to the great delight of twelve-year-old tormentors. But then again, those were not high schoolers… Although, the older ones might well recall their golden childhood. In any case, better not to open the drawer just yet. One thing was certain: such deafening silence was no accident. That’s how hunters lie in wait, that’s how an angler freezes at the sight of a bobber twitching. What had those little devils concocted?
The teacher sighed deeply and turned to the class with professional vigor, the students were all eyes on her. Let them stare, eyes aren’t teeth, they won’t bite off a finger. The main thing was to be vigilant and fearless. The trap set would soon reveal itself, and she could then, having laughed together with the fools, calmly continue the lesson. Thank God, this wasn’t her first rodeo. Those who have taught in schools are not intimidated by snake-infested jungles or an alligator swamp.
"So, friends, today we will review…" Rikki began, but paused, her eyes catching on the third desk from the door.
Muffled giggles followed, then someone laughed out loud, and finally, everyone burst out, celebrating the obvious discomfiture of the teacher. Though, she undoubtedly had reason to be flustered. There, on the third desk, sat someone unflappably in a dove costume: fake feathers glued to a sweater and pants, mock bird feet tied to shoes, and a huge papier-mâché bird head with a shiny tin beak and two round holes through which someone’s triumphantly twinkling eyes could be seen. But why "someone"? Clearly it was…
Rikki managed a laugh. When they laugh at you, it’s wisest to join in the chorus of mockers.
"Alright, Symon," she said, maintaining her spirited tone. "Let's consider the dove fashion show a success. We all appreciate your creativity. Now, please take off that cumbersome headgear because it is surely obstructing the board for those sitting behind you. You may keep the feathers and wings; perhaps they will help you improve your grades in my subject. Because so far, you, alas, have not shown yourself to be a high flyer in geography."
The class laughed again, appreciating the joke. Rikki breathed a sigh of relief: the incident seemed resolved. A sense of humor and goodwill are keys to the hearts of children. However, Symon Perski was not quick to comply with the teacher's request. To be precise, he did not react at all, not even stirring. Rikki stepped closer.
"Symon, did you hear me?"
She had to repeat the question twice before getting a response. Even then, it was not Perski who answered, but his blonde neighbor, Natalie.
"It's not Symon, teacher."
"Not Symon?" Rikki was surprised. "Then who is it, if not him?"
"It's Furry. Furry-Dove," Natalie explained. "And it's not 'he,' it's 'it.' It doesn't understand human speech."
"It understands when hit by a slingshot stone!" someone shouted out.
Furry-Dove made a protesting throaty noise and turned sharply towards the voice, clipping the teacher with its beak. Rikki yelped in pain: the sharp tin scratched her arm above the elbow. Blood appeared, but Furry-Dove was not at all disconcerted. It continued to cluck and coo angrily, paying no mind to the injured teacher. Rikki’s patience had run out.
"That's enough!" she exclaimed, clutching the wound on her injured shoulder with her palm. "Take off that abomination right now! Remove it or get out of the class!"
But Furry-Dove didn’t move. He stopped cooing and now silently, with one eye, in a completely bird-like manner, surveyed the teacher, slightly turning his fake head from side to side. The class, holding its breath, watched the unfolding drama. Choking with fury, Rikki grabbed the student by the collar, yanked him into the aisle, and dragged him to the door.
"Out! Get out! And don't come back until you look human again!"
After pushing Furry-Dove out into the corridor, she returned to the desk to bandage the wound with a scarf. This break and a minute or two of breathing exercises helped her to calm down somewhat. She had to continue. Continue no matter what. Rikki finished bandaging and turned to the class, which was eagerly absorbing every move, every word, every sigh of the teacher. If looks could be stones, she would have been stoned to death long ago. But tough luck, alligators…
"We'll continue with the topic of Latin America," she said as if nothing had happened. "Last session, we talked about the natural landscape. Today, we will briefly characterize the composition of mineral resources. So…"
The rest of the session went without any further incidents. The banished student did not return-to Rikki’s great relief.
* * *
At the end of the classes, she was asked to visit the principal's office. In the office, besides the principal himself, there were two others: Furry-Dove and a gaunt lady with a frozen expression of angry protest on her smoothly tightened face. With the flatness of her form and the relentlessness of her gaze, she resembled a living poster from a demonstration for the protection of animals and minorities against predatory capitalism and global warming.
"Please have a seat, Mrs. Taviano," the principal said with authoritative gentleness in his voice. "We've gathered here to discuss today’s… uh… incident and find a… uh… mutually acceptable solution."
Rikki perched on the edge of the chair.
"I insist on Symon's suspension," she said. "Not only did the student come to class in an inappropriate manner, threatening health and…"
"Hold on a moment, Mrs. Taviano," the principal interrupted. "I assume you do not object to our young ones' unconditional right to freely choose their personal identity?"
"Absolutely not, Mr. Principal," the teacher replied. "In my classroom the freedom of identity is fully respected."
"There you go!" the principal exclaimed delightedly and turned to the poster lady. "As you can see, Mrs. Perski, Symon can be entirely assured…"
A protesting coo emerged from under the dove head. The mother stirred.
"How many times do I have to explain: there is no Symon!" she hissed indignantly. "Before you stands a furry! A furry who identifies itself as a dove! That is, Furry-Dove! Is that not clear? Or are you deliberately insulting my… my… my…"
The lady swallowed the end of her sentence, still confused about the correct choice of the last word. The principal hastily waved his hands.
"Of course not, dear Mrs. Perski," he exclaimed. "Furry-Dove-that’s wonderful! That’s great! No objections. I assure you: the school has no intention of discouraging student self-expression. Furthermore, we will not tolerate even a hint of disrespect for the freedom to choose one's identity. Isn’t that right, Mrs. Taviano?"
A tense silence hung in the office. Rikki shivered, pinned to the back of her chair by the pins of five eyes: two from the principal, two from the poster lady, and one dove eye. It took effort for her to squeeze out a forced agreement.
"Well… If that's how the issue is being framed, then, of course…"
"Excellent!" the principal summed up cheerfully. "So, a solution has been found. Symon… sorry, Furry-Dove may attend classes in a manner that fully corresponds to his personal identity. Well then? Shall we consider the incident resolved?"
He addressed Mrs. Perski, but it was Furry-Dove who responded with a furious clucking, waving its tin beak back and forth. The principal listened, slightly tilting his head, with an expression of benevolent attention.
"What he is saying, Mrs. Perski?"
The lady snorted indignantly:
"First of all, it's not 'he,' it's 'it'! And secondly, it demands an apology."
"An apology?" the principal asked, puzzled, and turned to Rikki. "Well, I assume Mrs. Taviano doesn’t mind. Right, Rikki? You regret your thoughtless act? Very much so?"
"I regret…" the teacher muttered. "I'm sorry…"
Furry-Dove nodded its beak and triumphantly cooed. The principal looked worriedly at the poster lady:
"What did he… sorry, what did it say?"
"It demands that the apologies be made publicly, in front of the class," the lady translated.
"I believe that's also not a problem, right, Mrs. Taviano?" Not waiting for the teacher's response, the principal stood up, his demeanor affirming the successful conclusion of the negotiations. "I'm glad our discussion has reached a common denominator. Thank you for coming. My office is always open to students and their parents. Mrs. Perski… Furry-Dove…"
He escorted the Perskis to the door with all due ceremony, then returned to his desk and to Rikki, who still sat motionless on her chair, her head bowed and her gaze fixed on her bandaged arm.
"Ah, Rikki, Rikki… How on earth did you get yourself into this mess?"
She shrugged:
"I don’t know… That scoundrel injured me. Look at this scratch…"
The principal sighed. Young and promising, he had been appointed only two years ago but had already firmly learned that no scandal ends well, so it's better to prevent them altogether. Otherwise, he might have to fire this foolish old teacher…
"What does the scratch have to do with it? Have you never heard of furries? No? It's a fresh youth movement. A new kind of identity, in addition to gender. If a boy feels like a girl, they help him get rid of his male appendages, don't they? Well then. Why shouldn’t another boy or girl, or transgender, or anyone else from the current equal genders feel like a dove or a cow?" He paused for a second and corrected himself: "Though, no, not a cow-they negatively impact the climate… Well then-a guinea pig or, say, a giraffe. What's the problem?"
"There's no problem…" Rikki confirmed dully. "If a boy can feel like a girl, then he can feel like a guinea pig. You are absolutely right."
"Great," the principal rubbed his hands. "So, we agree: you will publicly apologize to Furry-Dove, and I… I can expect that such incidents will be completely excluded from your future teaching practice. Because otherwise, no union can protect you. You understand: suppressing adolescent identity. This is taken very seriously now."
Rikki left the office, focusing solely on placing her feet correctly so as not to fall. Her cheeks burned with humiliation-both from what had just happened and what she anticipated in the future. The unequivocal threat of dismissal left her no choice, as she could not imagine herself outside the teaching profession. Lately, it didn’t take much to find oneself out on the street with a mark of shame. To receive the brand of a fascist. To come home and find the garage gate smeared with tar. To have a bucket of filth dumped on your head in public. For your son to be bullied during school breaks. To have to flee from your hometown without much hope of catching your breath before rumors of your harmful nature reached your new refuge.
The exemplary punishments of several colleagues who were slow to align with the new progressive currents made this painfully clear. The boundaries of possibility had narrowed to the width of a thin mountain trail. A sheer wall on one side, a bottomless abyss on the other-there was no stepping aside, no stopping, no slowing down. Essentially, one could not even sway. One was only permitted to march-in step with everyone else, without breaking the general rhythm. No, she could not allow even the slightest hint of disobedience.
But her cheeks, nevertheless, burned as if slapped hard. And the humiliation was most painfully felt in front of the sneaky boy Perski, the newly proclaimed Furry-Dove. Precisely in front of him. Because she couldn’t care less about the milksop-principal-a typical son of a bitch, a springy jack-in-the-box groomed for a political career. Another year or two, and he would leap from the school to another administrative position-leap and immediately be forgotten. And she doesn't give a damn about the flat-chested poster mom-how many of those crazy sexless harpies are there, spewing venom at city crossroads?
But Furry-Dove… - it would hardly be possible to soon erase from memory the triumphant gleam of his eyes through the cut-outs in the fake papier-mâché. The young villain simply radiated an assurance of impunity. Although, no, it's incorrect to speak of impunity… Punishment indeed followed-it’s just that it was not he who was punished, but the teacher. The audacious teacher who dared to contradict the true master of the situation. Would he stop there? Very doubtful. It’s she and others like her who are balancing on a narrow path, while before him stretches an endless smooth field-steer wherever you fancy… Why brake when you can accelerate to your heart’s content?
* * *
Two months later, when Rikki entered her son's room, she found him making a papier-mâché mask.
"Furry?"
He nodded guiltily:
"Can't help it, Mom. It's necessary nowadays…"
Her son didn't finish the sentence, but she knew the rest: it's dangerous. Without this, it's now dangerous. Either become a furry or prepare for trouble. What kind exactly? There was still some ambiguity about that.
"I hope you got permission?"
"Of course, Mom, how else… Here…" - he took a piece of paper from the table. - "I'm allowed to be a Gopher-Furry. By the way, I recommend it for you too. You could definitely go for a Mongoose-Furry. Rikki Taviano - it's almost Rikki-Tikki-Tavi."
"Are you out of your mind?" exclaimed Rikki in surprise. "That's strictly a children's game, what do adults have to do with it?"
"Not at all," the boy objected, carefully smearing glue on the gopher head model. "They say some teachers have already applied. And the principal too."
Rikki sighed. Starting with a single Furry-Dove, the movement quickly gained new participants. Initially, all volunteers were accepted, but after three to four weeks, the spontaneous process of furrization was organized by the emergence of the Furry-Troika, consisting of Furry-Dove, Furry-Hyena, and Furry-Boa. They reviewed potential candidates, and in case of a positive decision, issued a license for a particular furry-identity. The Troika's verdicts were not subject to appeal; self-appointed furry-illegals discovered by furry-patrols were severely punished, and the tattered remnants of their costumes were ceremonially burned in the courtyard.
Soon, the school definitively split into two roughly equal parts: a pack of privileged furry-beasts and a cowed, humiliated, subjugated human herd. Classes continued according to the curriculum, but turned into meaningless time-wasting, filled with barking, squeaking, whistling, hooting, growling, bleating, and other sounds characteristic of forests, barns, savannas, and livestock farms. Entering the classroom daily, Rikki preemptively plugged her ears and tried not to look at the desks, forcing herself to imagine that she was teaching in a completely empty room.
Per the principal’s directive, grades were initially issued based on past performance from the irretrievably gone era of homeworks, quizzes, and thematic exams. However, control over academic performance soon passed to a special furry-committee appointed by the same Troika. Now, Rikki and other teachers were expected to sign off weekly on grade sheets already adorned with excellent marks for furry-students.
Announcing this new order at a faculty meeting, the principal expressed his extreme pleasure in sharing responsibilities with the school self-governing bodies. He remarked that democracy, equality, and the fraternity of free identities undoubtedly heralded a bright future. Naturally, there were no objections. On the contrary, everyone unanimously agreed that, despite some problems, nothing bad was happening in the school, only good, very good, and excellent things. However, the word “problems” was promptly excluded from the discussion, replaced by a more precise term: “challenges.”
Among these “challenges,” the physics teacher, Mrs. Valeria Newyard, mentioned a recent beating of a furry-illegal that ended with an emergency call and the victim's hospitalization.
“I visited the boy yesterday,” said the physicist. “The poor thing hasn’t come out of the coma yet. Frankly, I couldn’t understand why they had to amputate his arm. Imagine: the doctors claim he was brought in already one-armed, that is, with a stump. It’s barbaric and…”
The principal stopped her with a decisive gesture.
“Nonsense and lies, Mrs. Newyard! Why would anyone rip off a student’s arm, tell me? To eat it?” He grimaced comically. “Laughable, simply preposterous! We all know furries are principled vegetarians, because it’s both eco-friendly and progressive. And as for the coma… Before condemning a natural culture unfamiliar to us, we should look in the mirror. Who do we see there, ladies and gentlemen? White colonizers, cruel oppressors of native peoples, destroyers of nature. We cut down forests, kill defenseless animals, and are about to destroy the beautiful planet we dare to call our own. Our own, ladies and gentlemen! But it does not belong to us. Not to us, ladies and gentlemen! It belongs to the world of nature - to animals, plants, furries… They were here before us, weren’t they? Thus, they have every right to decide who to admit to their ranks, and who is merely tagging along, ready to betray tomorrow.”
The faculty silently agreed, nodding in recognition of the principal’s obvious correctness. Only Mrs. Newyard shook her head doubtfully, completely out of sync with the general mood.
“Well, Mrs. Newyard?” said the principal, a note of irritation in his voice. “Are you dissatisfied again?”
The physicist shrugged.
“Perhaps I need additional efforts or even training to correct my insufficiently progressive approach,” she guiltily said, “but some things that were recently considered unacceptable at school… Just today, walking down the third-floor corridor, I witnessed something absolutely… absolutely…”
Mrs. Newyard blushed deeply and covered her face with her hands. The principal slapped the table impatiently:
“Stop mumbling! What did you see?”
“Mating…” she whispered barely audibly. “Right in front of other children. A Furry-Wolf openly mating with a Furry-Sheep… He was growling, she was bleating, it was something… something…”
“So what?” interrupted the principal. “What’s so bad about that? Isn’t it natural, progressive? Is it not foretold by the biblical prophets: 'And the wolf shall dwell with the lamb'? There they are, lying together! A centuries-old dream has come true! You should be rejoicing, yet you protest… However you wish, Mrs. Newyard, but your dark-minded approach needs immediate correction."
* * *
The progressive principal proved to be prophetic. A month later, Rikki Taviano, formerly a geography teacher and now Furry-Mongoose-Rikki-Tikki-Tavi, found herself an unwilling witness to the radical correction of the benighted physicist through the tin beak of a Furry-Dove. Mounted atop the lifeless body of Mrs. Valeria Newyard, he methodically pecked at her chest, each time tearing away small pieces of flesh. Bloody fragments flew several meters; the surrounding furries caught them in mid-air and stuffed them into their mouth openings. A red pool spread across the floor.
Overcoming nausea, Furry-Mongoose-Rikki-Tikki-Tavi made her way to a free classroom. First, she barricaded the entrance, freed her head from the cumbersome mongoose head model, caught her breath, and dialed the number of Itamar Gvir, the city police chief and her former classmate. After listening to her agitated account, Gvir sighed sympathetically and noted that doves were the cruelest creatures in nature, though commonly thought otherwise.
"If you have to choose, it's better to die from a wolf," he said. "A wolf clamps onto the throat, tears the vein with one motion - and it's over, a quick and painless death. But damn doves will peck with their little beaks for hours - you'll suffer agonizingly before you die. Well, you saw it yourself, you know."
"Is there no choice?" Rikki asked. "You talk as if you aren't in command of a hundred armed cops. Can't you restore order? They're killing people, Itamar. Adults, children, elders - everyone they come across. They feed on human flesh, even though they're vegetarians."
"Yes, I'm aware," the police chief chuckled. "We were required to undergo training. You see, according to the progressive science, furries are even more peaceful and progressive than vegetarians. They've pledged to protect nature, hence they don’t eat meat, dairy, or plant-based foods. Only special food composed of elements that are hostile to nature and progress."
"That is, of humans?" the teacher clarified.
Gvir sighed again:
"That turns out to be the case. But furries don't use words like 'humans' or 'people.' They just call it 'food.' By consuming food, furries nourish themselves and simultaneously rid nature of its worst enemies, converting them into useful progressive compost. It's a win-win all around."
"I can't believe my ears!" Rikki exclaimed. "How can you reconcile with this nightmare? You're a policeman, Itamar! Order your cops to get in their cars, turn on the sirens, and come here. I assure you, you won’t need to shoot: ordinary batons and handcuffs will suffice to bring these fiends to their senses!"
Gvir paused before responding.
"Do you know where I am sitting right now, Rikki?" he finally said. "In my office, locked in. I have a revolver with three magazines on my belt, a shotgun on the table with a supply of cartridges. My wife and kids are with me - the two youngest. My eldest is now a cannibal, a Furry-Jackal. A disgrace to my gray hair. If only it were a leopard or even an ostrich - but a jackal! Understand? My wife and I raised a jackal! It’s unthinkable… And two-thirds of those you call my cops are roaming the corridor right now in the form of gorillas, orangutans, and rhinoceroses. Honestly, many here resembled gorillas even before this madness. I can’t do anything, even if I really wanted to."
Rikki sobbed.
"So, it's the end? So, there's no other way out but to just sit, hands folded, and wait to be pecked, eaten, swallowed?"
"Hands folded, flippers glued, paws crossed…" the police chief bitterly chuckled. "Depends on what kind of knob you have on your head."
"You always had a particular sense of humor."
Gvir laughed:
"What else do I have left? Only this disease can end itself now. All power is with them. Forget the police, the army, the authority, the former human norm. It’s just them everywhere: furries and their allies."
After ending the conversation, Rikki sat motionless for a while, struck by a sudden thought. Then, she exhaled sharply and dialed the number of the Animal Protection Society. A cheerful female voice answered:
"Hello, this is Chicko Castra. How can I help you?"
"Good afternoon, dear Chicko," Rikki began ingratiatingly. "We are in dire need of your emergency assistance here. In the building where I am, hundreds of homeless animals are dying from starvation, cold, and diseases. You simply must help them!"
"Please provide the address," the girl responded promptly. "We'll come and…"
"One moment," Rikki interrupted her. "I would like to know what measures you usually take. What is the procedure for helping these unfortunate animals?"
The interlocutor clicked her tongue understandingly:
"We deeply appreciate your concern for the helpless four-legged and winged patients, but there's no need to worry. Our actions are standard; the Protection Society operates strictly following protocols approved by international organizations. With a significant number of homeless animals-as seems to be the case here-the procedure includes general anesthesia through mass sedation, a thorough veterinary examination, vaccinations for distemper and rabies, and, of course, painless prevention of reproduction."
"Mass sedation… Rabies vaccinations…" Rikki repeated. "That's just wonderful. And how is reproduction prevented?"
"By castration," Chicko Castra explained readily. "Castration of males and sterilization of females. Snip-snip - and it's done. We leave behind healthy, peaceful, and happy animals, free from the senseless displays of aggression typical of uncontrolled breeding."
"Excellent," Rikki said, trying unsuccessfully to calm her wildly beating heart. "Write down the address."
Then she stood at the window, blindly staring at the schoolyard, repeating like a mantra the phrase said by the besieged police chief in his office: "Only the disease can end the disease… Only the disease can end the disease… Only the disease can end…"
The column of veterinary buses arrived relatively quickly.
* * *
Upon entering the classroom, Rikki Taviano threw a register onto the desk with a habitual motion and pulled out a binder from her briefcase containing the lesson plan and supplementary materials. Without even turning around, she could feel the frightened silence of the class through her back and the nape of her neck. They fear the test, poor little castrates… Rikki turned to the students.
"Do not be afraid, friends, there will be no test today. But those who have studied well the material from the last lesson have a chance to improve their final semester grade. Any volunteers?"
Symon Perski timidly raised his hand.
"Symon? Well done! Please, come to the board. Tell us about the minerals of Guyana. Come on, don't be afraid, no one is going to eat you."
Rikki walked over to the window. Symon Perski, formerly Furry-Dove and the undisputed leader of the Furry-Troika, muttered behind her back the diligently memorized lesson. The rest listened attentively, maintaining impeccable discipline. At moments like these, the teacher was overwhelmed with pity for the mutilated and sterilized children. Maybe she was wrong? Maybe it was not necessary…
Her leisurely train of thought was interrupted by the thunderous clash of drums, the screech of megaphones, and the unified chanting of hundreds of trained voices. A demonstration in defense of minorities, rats, and termites-oppressed by white colonizers and suppressed by the predatory capitalism that maliciously warmed the innocent climate-crawled past the street outside the windows. Above the ragged column of hysterical young people, wrapped up to their eyebrows in checkered black-and-white scarves, fluttered red, yellow, green, rainbow, and four-colored flags; here and there, menacing posters depicting blood-stained, fanged fascists trampling children’s skulls could be seen. Symon stopped speaking in fright, and Rikki turned back to face the quieted classroom.
"Do not be afraid, friends, nothing terrible is happening. Symon, please continue, just a bit louder…"
The murmuring resumed, partially drowning out the noise from the street. "Everything is right," Rikki decided, nodding kindly and encouraging the castrate with a gentle gaze. "There are generations that simply don't deserve the right to reproduce. There are, aren't there?"