The Sound and the Furry:
Three Days Chasing the Tale of B.C.’s Strangest Subculture
Reportage by Jesse Donaldson
FRIDAY
In the ballroom of the Burnaby Executive Hotel and Conference Centre, a hush has fallen over the crowd. The mood hovers somewhere between ecstasy and reverence as two figures pick their way to the front, through rows of battered wooden chairs, and take their place on a makeshift stage. They’re an impressive duo, framed against the gold damask wallpaper; on the left, a tawny-looking rabbit in a referee’s jersey. On the right, a husky in a Mountie’s uniform. All through the audience, attendees sport laminated badges on lanyards, cards which bear elaborate, hand-drawn animal faces, and names like “Indigo,” “Silvermink,” and “Fisk.” In the front row, a blue fox in a green t-shirt raises its eyebrows in anticipation. And two rows from the front, flanked by a middle-aged man in tiger ears and a sallow kid cradling a fox puppet sit your humble correspondents, having taken it upon themselves to infiltrate an event where such weirdness is commonplace, a place where blue foxes and silverminks and huskies with a law-enforcement mandate can frolic in peace: this is VancouFUR, the city’s first official Furry Convention.
Even in the world of geek culture, Furries are the ultimate social outliers.
A 2008 scientific study (yes, there are studies on the subject) defines them according to a simple set of parameters: they’re a community who “identify with, and may wish to assume some characteristics of non-human animals.” This can manifest in a number of different ways; some are “suiters”—that is, participants like Mountie and Referrabbit, who are clad in the full-body Fursuits that have come to represent the community to outsiders—while others make do with a simple tail, ears, makeup, or in some cases (including a fellow to our right who still has his backpack firmly strapped on, as if he might bolt at any moment), no identifying Furry characteristics whatsoever.
The international community has existed since the late 1980s, spawned from a primordial soup of Star Trek Conventions, animated films, and DIY fan-zines, and has grown to the point where Anthro-con (billed as “The World’s Largest Furry Convention”) brings close to $3 million annually into the Pittsburgh economy. Apart from conventions, the community exists largely online, in forums such as Fur Affinity, and through online role-playing games like furryMuck, and Furcadia (billed as “a magical world where the animals have learned to speak and walk upon two legs”). For some, there is also a sexual aspect to the community—on discussion boards, at conventions, and in the sizeable body of fanfiction and “Yiff” Art that permeates Furry websites (if you’ve ever wondered what a lovingly rendered homosexual liaison between Simba and Scar might look like, look no further), though it’s unclear exactly how deep it goes, and none of VancouFUR’s organizers seem particularly eager to discuss it. Currently, there is no accurate count of British Columbia’s Furry population, however, at last count, “b.c. Furries,” the local discussion board, boasted 1,566 members, and on its first morning, VancouFUR—a three-day affair—has already received 152 paid pre-registrations.
“And now,” a voice announces, “all rise for the Canadian National Anthem.”
The lights come up, and we are led in a stirring rendition of “O Canada,” accompanied by Referrabbit (who acts as conductor), Mountie, and a nervous-looking plaid-clad fellow on the violin who gets horribly lost somewhere in the “with glowing hearts” section, but manages to redeem himself in time for “we stand on guard for thee.” After a smattering of applause, the event’s organizers (whose name tags read “Coal Silvermuzzle” and “Aphinity,” respectively) take the stage, kicking off the Opening Ceremonies with an inaudible Red Green-inspired skit that fails to garner much understanding from the audience.
“Did anybody get that?” Coal asks. “We’re doing Red Green.”
Both are dressed in plaid and suspenders, in keeping with this year’s theme: The Great White North. Coal is tall, older, bearded, with sandpapery, psoriasis-ravaged skin, and Aphinity is short, taciturn, handsome, and fastidiously maintained. Neither Coal nor Aphinity are suiters, though both of them, and indeed every self-respecting Furry in the room, have established “Fursonas”: elaborate identities which include an animal-based avatar, backstory, and associated animal characteristics. These “Fursonas” need not be bound by the laws of nature; they can be based on real animals, or any manner of imagined hybrids (Coal identifies as a “folf”: half fox, half wolf, while Aphinity identifies as some kind of dog/skunk thing).
“Thank you all for being here!” Coal shouts. “We knew that we would have people, but we never expected this many!”
The crowd cheers. Coal’s hands shake as he holds the microphone.
They thank the attendees, and set down rules for etiquette (removing the head from one’s Fursuit in common areas is strictly forbidden). And, in an unfortunate twist of fate, they warn, the hotel is also hosting a convention that same weekend for the Wives and Daughters of the Freemasons (a bizarre development that is likely making a Reality TV executive somewhere jump up from his desk and shout “Eureka!”).
Moments later, the opening ceremonies end, and your esteemed correspondents are released into the wild, armed with a map and schedule which includes such thrilling items as “Traditional Tail-making,” “Fighting in Storytelling,” and “Furry Feud” (not to mention a ticket which contains the worrisome fine print: “No silly string, no water-guns, and no daggers”). However, before being let completely off the leash, your correspondents are taken aside by a grave-faced Aphinity. We must have a media badge, we’re warned. We must have an escort. We must be pleasant and polite, and smile at all times. Neither is this the first time your correspondents have been subjected to such intense Obedience Training; thus far, gaining access to VancouFUR has been unusually difficult, already requiring one late-night meeting at a nearby Tim Horton’s so that both Coal and Aphinity could parse our intentions.
“You need to be careful,” he warns. “This is a very sensitive community.”
Furries, it appears, take themselves incredibly seriously. This comes as quite a surprise to your correspondents (one would think a sense of humour would be a prerequisite at any conference where the chief organizer identifies as a “folf”), nonetheless, after assuring Aphinity of our benevolence, we’re able to take in an afternoon of VancouFUR’s various informative lectures. We pass a thrilling forty-five minutes at a workshop entitled “Traditional Tailmaking,” learning the basics of crafting the perfect caudal appendage—when it comes to sewing, we’re informed, medium tension is best, and, when attaching a tail to one’s belt (as is customary), it’s important to sew two loops, for increased “tail stability.”
“When I attach a tail,” our host explains, gravely, “I want a solid support system.”
We explore the Dealer’s Den, venture into an area called “Free Play” (less exciting than it sounds), and have a ten-minute conversation about photography with a chipmunk in a Hawaiian shirt. And finally, we attend the afternoon’s keynote lecture: “Understanding Furries.”
“Furries began in 33,000 BCE,” explains co-host “Star Wonder,” a girl in her twenties with a bombastic pink mohawk and leopard spots drawn onto her skin. “Evidence of this was found in cave paintings in Spain and France – images of humans with animal heads. They felt that these animals were their guiding spirits, and that it was a part of who they were.”
Star Wonder and co-host Kuviare (whose makeup, collar and tail, he insists, are worn at school, home and work) explain the use of anthropomorphized animals in ancient Egypt, describing hybrid gods such as Thoth, Ra, and Anubis, and liken the modern Furry “movement” to the Native American practice of invoking spirit animals. “It’s a way to regain that connection to nature,” Star Wonder explains. “It’s a way of being comfortable with yourself, and with your sexuality and personality. When I was little, I would eat cat food, and go in the litterbox. I never told anyone, but I went in the litterbox.”
It appears that Star Wonder and Kuviare—hygienically unsound though they may be—are a pair of bona fide Furry Activists. For them, it’s more than a hobby; it’s a crucial part of their social identity, and the animals they’ve chosen are viewed as an extension of themselves (Star Wonder herself is something of an internet celebrity, known amongst the community for designing and selling Fursonas). The pair make a point of detailing the difference between “Furry Fandom” and the “Furry Community,” noting (with the utmost seriousness) that there is a deep internal divide between those who simply enjoy anthropomorphized animals, and those for whom being a Furry is a lifestyle choice.
“Being a Furry—it’s all in your heart,” Star Wonder insists. “It’s part of who you are. It’s like coming out of the Furry closet, in the same way you have to do if you’re gay.”
According to our hosts, less than ten per cent of Furries wear the full-body “Fursuit” (a number reported as anywhere between ten and twenty-five per cent in independent studies), and even fewer don the infamous “Mursuit”—a Furry outfit with exposed genitals. While the pair carefully abstain from discussion of the community’s adult leanings, they make the point that notions of Fursuit intercourse popularized by the mainstream media are not only inaccurate, but, due to the likelihood of overheating, completely impractical.
“Nobody has sex in the Fursuits,” Star Wonder says, gravely. “You would die.”
SATURDAY
Night has fallen by the time your humble correspondents return to the convention, under the influence of small amounts of mind-altering substances—a plan which seemed sound until being approached by what are ostensibly groups of large, talking cartoon animals. The evening’s main event—another lecture hosted by Kuviare and Star Wonder—is about to get underway; however, this time, it’s intended to explore the community’s more adult leanings. Aphinity looks uncomfortable as he escorts your correspondents through the halls, and insists on sitting in to moderate the proceedings.
“I’m not trying to stop you from going to this panel,” he notes, “I’m just a little concerned that this is a very narrow perspective.”
Despite Aphinity’s warnings, we’re warmly received by the evening crowd, who refer to us alternately as “humans,” and “the media.” The discussion is harried (Star Wonder, Kuviare, and several audience members suffer from add), and much of the sex-talk is quickly scuttled by Aphinity. The one topic that does make it past the watchful co-chair is Knotting, a popular fanfiction concept whereby certain males have a wolflike member which binds them to a partner during intercourse. It’s important to note that this isn’t exclusively a Furry concept; for example, AO3 (the internet’s most popular website for “transformative fanfiction”) contains thousands of pieces of Knotting-related erotica (103 of which specifically involve the members of One Direction—that is, erotic fiction in which members of One Direction have canine-style intercourse and impregnate one another—which is approximately 102 more than your esteemed correspondents would have thought possible).
“It has a very deep spiritual connection for some Furries, myself included,” Kuviare explains. “To tie with someone is to mark them as yours, and to unify the connection.”
More than anything, our hosts preach acceptance—of one another, of all sexual preferences, of the community at large—except, of course, of something called a Babyfur, which everyone agrees is simply too weird, even for them.
“Thanks for talking with us,” we say, when the lecture concludes. “We’re just trying to understand what’s going on here. The last thing we want to say in this article is that ‘these people are a bunch of freaks.’”
“But we are freaks,” Star Wonder laughs. “And that’s okay. Normal is a setting on a washing machine.”
A moment later, Kuviare pulls out a laser pointer, and Star Wonder pounces on it, knocking over a table.
He laughs.
“She can’t help it.”
SUNDAY
Barely have we strolled back through the lobby and observed a spirited game of Fursuit Musical Chairs, than we encounter a familiar face: it’s the expressive Blue Fox from Day One—only now, in place of a ragged t-shirt, he’s clad in a head-to-toe blue Fursuit, his tail ablaze with led lights. Upon seeing us, he blinks and sticks out his tongue.
He calls himself Mountain Blue Fox Joe.
His costume is twenty-five years old (and one of five he’s constructed), and the head itself features elaborate animatronics allowing it to snarl, blink, and move its ears—all through the use of tongue-activated switches. A self-confessed “Trekkie,” Joe spends six months of the year operating a goldmine in the mountains of Alaska, working underground, a job he’s performed in isolation for twenty-eight years (“I have my animal friends with me,” he shrugs). There’s no sexual element to the lifestyle, he insists, maintaining that his material is “all G-rated.”
“It’s all clean fun,” he notes. “It’s like going to Disneyland every day. Basically. You become Disneyland. Every kid goes: ‘Daddy, I wish I could do that.’ So, I says: ‘Why are you wishin’?’ I says: ‘Do it! Make these suits! Don’t let anybody stop ya!’ It’s like throwing a puppy into the middle of a crowd of arguing women—it just puts a stop to it.”
We thank Joe for his time, and, having seen neither hide nor hair of Aphinity or Coal, risk roaming the floor unescorted. Unfortunately, only moments later we’re accosted by Furry Security.
“Oh, it’s only you,” the guard says, rounding the corner.
“What?”
“Oh, we were told there was media poking around. We didn’t know it was you guys.”
“Somebody called security on us?”
It takes only a moment to ascertain the culprits—a mink, a rabbit and a cat who had passed only moments earlier, regarding your humble correspondents with suspicion—and only a further moment to chase them down.
“Did you call security on us?” we ask. They nod, nervous.
“Why?”
As they explain (after they take us into a private room out of earshot of the convention’s organizers), they disagree with the portrayal of their community being presented by people like Aphinity and Blue Fox Joe, disagreeing with the co-opting of Native American culture, and insisting that the sexual aspects of the community we’ve glimpsed are not only present, but prevalent.
“They say ‘It’s a teeny, tiny percentage of people for whom this is about sex’,” Rabbit notes. “I think it is a significant percentage of people for whom this is about sex.”
“I feel like it’s the party line that it’s a tiny minority of people for whom it’s about sex,” Mink agrees, “and I feel like the public image of Furries would be better if people would own up to that, rather than being paranoid about it. I know there would be people who would be like: ‘Finally!’ But not everybody. And there are people who are absolutely not lying—it’s totally not sexual for them, and they’re deeply confused by those of us for whom it is sexual.”
“I keep falling back on how it’s fun,” Rabbit muses. “It’s about sex and fun. It’s really enjoyable to be a rabbit and go hopping down the hallway, and have people go: ‘Bunny!’ If I were to do that in my apartment building, the chances that people would be excited—unless they were children—is fairly low. The chances that they would think I was crazy or drunk is fairly high.”
“A lot of people who fall into the ‘geek’ subset of people tend to gravitate toward stuff like this,” Mink adds. “I think, for a lot of people who had issues growing up, it’s a bit of an escape to go online and interact with people they don’t feel are going to judge them.”
“You know what would make your article a lot more interesting?” Cat asks. “If you figured out what species of animal you would be, and put that in your story.”
“Well, why did you choose your animals?” we ask, pointing toward Mink. “What are your minklike qualities?”
He hesitates.
“You know . . . I actually don’t know . . . ”
“You look like you have very soft hair,” we offer. “I do have soft hair,” he replies, sounding touched. “And I like fish.”
With that, we prepare to return to our natural habitat. For all their internal schisms, for all of their fears about public perception, for all the organizers’ paranoia, for all the slightly unsettling realities of mixing cartoon characters and sex, there doesn’t appear to be much about Furries worthy of condemnation. They’re little more than a community of people who desire a grand identity, something more exciting than their upbringing, appearance, or social status could provide, people who have discovered a way to be gods and goddesses and celebrities in a way their regular life might never allow. In a way, Mink identifying as a mink is little different from your humble correspondents identifying as journalists; they use ears and a tail, we use a notepad and a camera. Humans are narrative creatures, and Identity is little more than a story we tell ourselves about ourselves. On the SkyTrain home, we find ourselves examining those around us, pondering what their species might be—what their grand identity might entail. The skinny, bearded fellow in the ’80s high-tops. The bespectacled older woman in high-fastening corduroy pants. Mink. Rabbit. Ocelot. Musician. Athlete. Journalist. Gods and goddesses and celebrities.
In the weeks after filing our story, your esteemed correspondents are besieged by an unusually high volume of sputtering, vitriolic emails from maligned Furries seeking redress. Several (including Aphinity) denounce our story altogether, declaring us eternal enemies of all Furrykind. Nonetheless, in the years since, VancouFUR has achieved a measure of legitimacy; the convention is now in its 4th year (the upcoming theme is, we’re told, Gangsters and Gumshoes), and internationally, the community itself has gained even broader exposure; Anthrocon alone drew more than five thousand attendees in 2014.
And now for the best news: After years of extensive consultation, your esteemed correspondents have taken Cat’s advice, and settled on a Furry identity of our own. It’s a highly specialized hybrid made up of one part fox, one part duck, and one part female sheep.
Behold:
