Hide
Sargon and I once took a training course at our zoo to become docents. We didn't finish, unfortunately, due to the fact that getting up at fuck-that-o'clock in the morning on a Saturday is not any fun at all, but we did see a lot of really nifty things.
One day the class was up behind the snow leopard exhibit, which is this huge artificial mountainside. We were at the top of the mountain, looking down at the back of the huge iron cage that encloses the cats. And there, right there, were both snow leopards, curled up against the fence and sleeping. They were so beautiful, and even sleeping and caged they had a force about them. Compelling. I looked at them and I hurt inside because of their beauty, because it was so close, because I wanted it in a way I could not fully articulate or even understand.
The guide talked to us for about ten minutes about big cats, facts and figures we'd need to know for the public. I was deaf. All I could see were the black spots hovering on a moon-colored pelt. I stood at the back of the crowd, edging closer and closer to the fence; I stole a touch, just a brush of my fingers across a tuft of fur sticking through the fence, the fur of the jaw between ear and neck, where it's so dense and thick it stands out in spikes. It was so soft I could not even feel it on my fingertips.
It was a stupid thing to do. There was nothing between me and the animal but some woven metal webbing; it could easily have turned and bitten or clawed at me. But I had no choice. It compelled me, and I had to touch it. I needed to. I felt this awful ache. It was all I could do not to slip my tiny fingers through the tiny holes in the mesh and just dig them in, push through the fur to feel the muscle underneath, the warm, living flesh. I had to tear myself away, grateful that my little crime had gone unnoticed by both guides and cats.
Later, they brought in some natural artifacts for us to look at. Among them were two hides. One came from their old male wolf who had died a few years back; he'd been pretty big, about 100 pounds, and his skin was huge. The other was from a fully mature female snow leopard who'd had to be euthanized because of a prion-related disease which burned through half the zoo's big cats in three years.
They showed us the hides right before lunch, and after everyone left I stayed inside, put Sargon on the door, and I tried both of those skins on. The wolf skin was wonderful. I wrapped his forelegs around my shoulders, felt the weight of the skin on my back. His proportions were different from my own, though, and the skin didn't lie quite right. I wanted a belt and a cloakpin. It felt barbaric, but not quite natural.
The part that . . . frightened me . . . was putting on the snow leopard skin. Because it fit. The length of the forelegs was the same as my own; they came down over my shoulders and down my arms, with the paws ending just at my fingertips. The head sat perfectly on my own. The hips were in the same place. And the weight of it was unimaginable. So heavy and so supple and responsive, almost still alive. The enormous tail, powerfully heavy, such a natural weight. I have never, ever felt anything like it.
And in that moment it all felt so right. All the annoyance and anguish and pain and nagging dissatisfaction with my stupid human form was gone. This was so much better. It was like some dreadful clamor had been silenced. It was a unique moment of quiet, and I've never known anything quite like it since.
I do have a wolf pelt, black and silver. I bought it secondhand from another artist and crafter. "I am moving and I can't keep this. It has to go." I wasn't feeding the primary market, and someone had to take it, so I did.
It's my little crime writ large. It, like the skulls, is a bit terrible - a live thing that isn't, anymore. I will, of course, respect it, love it, but it is a rather haunting thing.
Tonight I sit in this body that simply does not match what I am inside, I lay the pelt across my lap. The black guard hairs spring up, rippling as I move, the paler undercoat bunching and clinging to itself in spikes. I sit in my own skin, unsatisfied, and wishing more than anything that I could put the other one on and have my inside match my outside -- not just for a moment, but at will, and perhaps forever.
"Nothing about her is human except that she is not a wolf; it is as if the fur she thought she wore had melted into her skin and become part of it, although it does not exist."
- Angela Carter, "Wolf-Alice"
One day the class was up behind the snow leopard exhibit, which is this huge artificial mountainside. We were at the top of the mountain, looking down at the back of the huge iron cage that encloses the cats. And there, right there, were both snow leopards, curled up against the fence and sleeping. They were so beautiful, and even sleeping and caged they had a force about them. Compelling. I looked at them and I hurt inside because of their beauty, because it was so close, because I wanted it in a way I could not fully articulate or even understand.
The guide talked to us for about ten minutes about big cats, facts and figures we'd need to know for the public. I was deaf. All I could see were the black spots hovering on a moon-colored pelt. I stood at the back of the crowd, edging closer and closer to the fence; I stole a touch, just a brush of my fingers across a tuft of fur sticking through the fence, the fur of the jaw between ear and neck, where it's so dense and thick it stands out in spikes. It was so soft I could not even feel it on my fingertips.
It was a stupid thing to do. There was nothing between me and the animal but some woven metal webbing; it could easily have turned and bitten or clawed at me. But I had no choice. It compelled me, and I had to touch it. I needed to. I felt this awful ache. It was all I could do not to slip my tiny fingers through the tiny holes in the mesh and just dig them in, push through the fur to feel the muscle underneath, the warm, living flesh. I had to tear myself away, grateful that my little crime had gone unnoticed by both guides and cats.
Later, they brought in some natural artifacts for us to look at. Among them were two hides. One came from their old male wolf who had died a few years back; he'd been pretty big, about 100 pounds, and his skin was huge. The other was from a fully mature female snow leopard who'd had to be euthanized because of a prion-related disease which burned through half the zoo's big cats in three years.
They showed us the hides right before lunch, and after everyone left I stayed inside, put Sargon on the door, and I tried both of those skins on. The wolf skin was wonderful. I wrapped his forelegs around my shoulders, felt the weight of the skin on my back. His proportions were different from my own, though, and the skin didn't lie quite right. I wanted a belt and a cloakpin. It felt barbaric, but not quite natural.
The part that . . . frightened me . . . was putting on the snow leopard skin. Because it fit. The length of the forelegs was the same as my own; they came down over my shoulders and down my arms, with the paws ending just at my fingertips. The head sat perfectly on my own. The hips were in the same place. And the weight of it was unimaginable. So heavy and so supple and responsive, almost still alive. The enormous tail, powerfully heavy, such a natural weight. I have never, ever felt anything like it.
And in that moment it all felt so right. All the annoyance and anguish and pain and nagging dissatisfaction with my stupid human form was gone. This was so much better. It was like some dreadful clamor had been silenced. It was a unique moment of quiet, and I've never known anything quite like it since.
I do have a wolf pelt, black and silver. I bought it secondhand from another artist and crafter. "I am moving and I can't keep this. It has to go." I wasn't feeding the primary market, and someone had to take it, so I did.
It's my little crime writ large. It, like the skulls, is a bit terrible - a live thing that isn't, anymore. I will, of course, respect it, love it, but it is a rather haunting thing.
Tonight I sit in this body that simply does not match what I am inside, I lay the pelt across my lap. The black guard hairs spring up, rippling as I move, the paler undercoat bunching and clinging to itself in spikes. I sit in my own skin, unsatisfied, and wishing more than anything that I could put the other one on and have my inside match my outside -- not just for a moment, but at will, and perhaps forever.
"Nothing about her is human except that she is not a wolf; it is as if the fur she thought she wore had melted into her skin and become part of it, although it does not exist."
- Angela Carter, "Wolf-Alice"