Strange Day

I hate parking in the garage at the McNamara terminal. Even though it is one of the world’s largest parking structures, there never seem to be any spaces, at least not covered ones. I could park in one of the outside lots and take a bus to the terminal, but my laziness is winning out over my penny-pinching side. Besides, I'm finally taking advantage of my frequent flier miles, so paying a little more for parking isn't any big deal.

Finally I'm able to shoe horn the Dodge Charger into a suitable space next to a concrete support column, at least one side of it should be safe, and I'm not too far from bridge across the terminal. I make my way toward the elevators, roller bag in tow, the new standard for luggage. I wish I could have used my smaller one, I hate having to check bags, but there was no way I could pack everything I would need for a full weekend into my smaller bag without crushing something.

I use one of the quick check-in kiosks, conveniently located right by the entrance. I can feel the strange looks on me as the attendant puts the tag around the handle on my bag. They don’t really bother me anymore; I know I’d probably be doing the same thing if I were them. I pick up the freshly printed boarding pass that just dropped out of the machine, fold it at the perforated seam, and shove it in my pocket. All it takes is the swipe of a credit card, and you're checked in; isn't technology wonderful?

I make my way across the bridge, then up stairs. The upper level always moves faster for security. Most of the people who use the self check-in use the lower checkpoint, they’re the seasoned business travelers and there are a lot of them. The line doesn’t look that much shorter, but it definitely moves faster. I take my place in the queue along with my fellow travelers. Off comes my watch and, along with my keys, it gets shove it into my laptop backpack. Normally, I would have just put those in my shoes, but since I don’t wear them anymore, that’s not really an option. I open up the laptop compartment for easy access when it needs to be placed into one of the x-ray bins as the line shuffles forward and fills in behind me.

After a good five minutes of people watching, and people watching me, I make it up to the bored look TSA official checking IDs. I produce my wallet, held open to show my drivers license along with my boarding pass. I hate taking my license out of the wallet because I usually end up putting it in upside down. She looks at the already creased and wrinkled ticket, then my ID, then me. Not even a second look, a rare occurrence. Though, I suppose she’s probably seen stranger or maybe finally implemented some sort of supplemental training.

There aren't many of us who were affected by whatever caused the changed, one in a thousand or something like that. For the US, not a significant number of people, but it's still enough to populate a good sized city. No one's found an explanation for why people changed; it just seemed to have happened. Even now, you'll hear about current statistics, seems some more are added every day. Some people live on just fine, like me. Others aren't so lucky. They either can't deal with what happened to them, they changed in the wrong place at the wrong time, or any number of other fates. I don't like to use that word though, I don't believe in fate. What do I think causes this to happen to people? I don't know. I'm a scientifically minded person: I like having explanations. But for some reason, I don't care about this one.

I pull my laptop from the bag and put it by itself into one of the plastic tubs and sit my backpack next to it, queued up to make their passage through the x-ray machine, along with my camera bag and pillow. I don't trust the baggage handlers with my two thousand dollars worth of camera equipment. I chuckle as I watch my fellow travelers taking off their shoes. I always thought having to take your shoes off to get them x-rayed was a bit silly, not to mention a pain in the butt. The only thing that really bothers me about it now is the smell. At the last minute, I remember to add my wallet to the collection of soon to be irradiated kit and step though the metal detector, holding out my boarding pass for yet another TSA official to check. As I pass though the electromagnetic field, another handler guides my carry-ons into the x-ray machine, manned by a third trustworthy government contract employee. No beeping this time, despite the fact that I forgot to remove my collar, which I wear as a sort of joke.

My ticket is handed back over to me with a little bit of a scribble on it, I have an idea why they do this. I shove my sticker laden laptop back into its protective foam sleeve and extract my personal belongings from the front pouch of the bag and return them to their rightful places on my person. I know they'll be there, I just feel a lot better with them in place. I pick up the rest as it slides down the rollers and head to the stairs back down to the main level. As I walk down the stairs, I scan over the open area leading to Concourse A, for such an open area, they did a good job controlling echoes. I head over to the newsstand and convenience shop and scan the magazine racks, ignoring the news magazines, not that I've ever really read them, they've all had nothing but articles about the change since it happened.

This is my usually routine when flying. It's about the only time I bother to buy magazines. I pick up one on motorcycles and Scientific American, which I hardly ever read anymore, but there looks to be some interesting articles in this month's issue. The bottles of over priced pop and bags of salty snacks beckon to me as I head for the cashier, but they've lost already, despite the fact that I can’t bring my drink into the airport. There's no line, there rarely is. I hand over my quarry to cashier, she barely notices me at first, bored and lifeless as any airport staff member. When she looks up from the register to claim the money I owe and she gets a good look at me. Like most people, there's no question, just that too long, deer in headlights stare as her brain processes what she's looking at. Without saying anything her brain hops back onto its tracks and completes the procedure it's run through many times before without any further delay. The usual pleasantries are exchanged as I'm giving my change and my purchase. As I walk away, I know she's looking at me more. I don't really mind though, I am a rather strikingly handsome fellow.

I put the magazines into one of the pockets on my backpack as I head deeper into the terminal building. The entrance hall, complete with Duty Free store and entrance to the "World Perks" lounge ends, branching out into the mile long Concourse A. I pull the ticket back out again, which by this point is quite bent out of shape having been squashed under my wallet. I hope the ticket scanner will still read the bar code. This is always a concern, but it never seems to happen, no matter how messed up the limp thermal paper tickets get. It says Gate A8, which means a trip on overhead tram, because I really don't feel like walking a half mile to the end of the concourse if I don't have to. I could use the moving walk ways but I hate how they feel on my paws.

I take the short trip up an escalator, which I don’t like standing on any more than the moving walkways, puts me on at the central tram station where plenty of people are already waiting, too engrossed in their own thoughts to notice me. They're either checking the displays above the doors to make sure they're on the right side of the station, or watching as the two red LED bars move across the terminal map which divides the station. I take my place, checking which side I need to be on. I know I'm getting looks. It's not as if people have seen other changed people. But being that, at least now, we're fairly rare, few people have seen two who are similar. There's definitely a healthy mix of species. I guess I'm fortunate in the fact that I'm nothing too exotic, a familiar looking creature for nearly anyone in the world.

The train arrives and the glass doors slide open, I stay back a bit, not wanting to cause any brain fart related delays. Then we all make out way onto the emptied red fiberglass tram. There aren't any seats. But really, for a ride of a little over a minute, why would you need one? It's not like I could use one comfortably anyway. The doors close far too quickly as last minute stragglers try and run for it. Whoever programmed this thing was none to bright, but they've never changed it, for whatever reason, I guess they have a schedule to keep. As the electric motors spin to life before the train suddenly lurches forward, a recorded voice is ignored, instructing my fellow passengers and I to take a hold of the polished stainless steel hand- grips. I've always liked testing myself against my own momentum and just how much acceleration those powerful motors can impart to the floor underneath me. Of course, now I'm able to cheat a little bit, lightly digging my poorly manicured claws into the generic speckled carpet perfect for hiding coffee spills and other stains.

I watch people and shops zip by below and red-tailed plane after red-tailed plane, parked outside the glass walls of the terminal building, through the smoked Plexiglas windows of the train. I pull out my compact digital camera and snap a few shots. For no good reason, I just like the scenery, even though I've seen so many times before. Sometimes the moment just catches you. I quickly frame and take a couple shots using the still cracked LCD on the back that I never bothered to get fixed. And just like that, the train slows and the ride is finished almost as quickly as it started. The disembarking and loading proceed as usual, with the occasional "what the" look in my direction. Then it's back down another escalator to the main floor before the train is even fully unloaded. I really whish people would walk up and down escalators, few people ever stand on the moving walk ways, but I guess that's because of the ubiquitous roller bag. I may be lazy, but I'm also impatient.

I step off the ribbed metal step and onto the fake stone floor, which is much more pleasant under paw. I gaze over at one of the stores, The "Stylish Paw." Not that I've never seen it before, it just always makes me chuckle. Maybe some day I'll actually peak inside, just to see what reaction I get. But today, as usually, I choose to walk through the small food court area, intoxicated by the smell of toasted Quizno's subs, Hungry Howie's pizza and Mrs. Fields cookies. My stomach growls at me angrily for this, I guess I'm going to have to indulge it with some over priced airport food. Like there was ever any doubt I wasn’t going to.

I think some pizza will do me good. For some reason, I just can't resist the wonderful greasiness of it. I get in line behind some generic looking business man. This area is always a little crowded; the tables and tightly packed counters don't help with that. I wait patiently in the line, these people always take longer than it seems like they need to. I look around, pondering my options, catching the many looks I'm getting. Occasionally I lock eyes with someone and give them a bit of a wink or smiles. Yes, I know you're looking at me, and I don't really mind. Of course they quickly look away and pretend like nothing happened as they go back to their freshly toasted sub or overpriced bottle of cheap American beer. I consider my options, I could get a salad and really mess with the clerk, but I'm in line for a pizza place and I'm going to get a nice cheesy slice.

When it's my turn I order one of their over-sized pieces of pepperoni, what can I say? I stick with the classics, and a diet Coke. I've gained weight since the change, mostly in fur, I think, but I'm still a little bit husky. The clerk doesn't bat an eye or give me a second look, though some of his coworkers seem to be. I guess serving pizza is more work than making it or maybe it's just the endless stream of irritated customers who never know what they want and can't seem to be bothered to think about it until they reach the counter. Can you tell I've been there before? I take my order and set about on the quest to find a suitable place to sit, the waiting area seats seem the most appealing, less risk of tail damage there.

I balance the pop on the small box containing my catch and head over into the waiting area. The sweet smell of cookies forces me to turn my head and gaze into the brightly lit display case, maybe later. I find a nicely deserted area, I've never really liked risking unnecessary social interactions; you could really call me a lone wolf. The cup and box find their spot on one side of where I plan to sit; the rest of my kit is hefted onto the other side. The weight is really the fault of my laptop, a desktop replacement, I don't really believe in buying a new computer that's not better than what I already have. I carefully thread my tail though the opening in the back of the chair. I don't even what to think about what a reptile or kangaroo goes through when trying to find a seat. As I settle in I move the box to my lap, feeling the warmth through my shorts. Opening the lid lets out a puff of pent up smells that swirl up and gets drawn in through my cold-wet nose, which I can't help but lick, making the smell that much more intense. All this just makes my stomach that much more impatient.

Finally, I pick up the cheesy goodness from the box, not giving a thought to sopping up the glistening, orange-ish grease. Even though I know some of it is bound to soak into the white fur of my paws, it would just detract from the experience. I wiggle my somewhat stubby fingers under the warm crust, chewed on claws scraping along it. Even after the change, I still bite my nails, or claws, as the case may be. I have to sort of cup my hand under the slice; I can't exactly hold things the same way as I used to be able to. My hands are somewhere in between paws and what I had before, thankfully I still have thumbs and can generally grip things okay. It's all just a matter of adapting.

Actually eating something, as in taking bites, is quite another experience. Moving parts made for a four legged animal onto a two legged creature makes a lot of things into an interesting affair. Having a mouth made for gripping and ripping prey doesn't really make eating normal, human food all that easy but I've been manage. I take my awkward bites, pausing now and again for a sip of pop. Announcements come on regularly about last calls for boarding and that Detroit is in the Eastern Time zone in a few languages, no one pays attention to them and I have to work to keep my ears from flicking to the speakers every time one comes on. Soon enough the pizza is gone and I lick off my hand, nibbling out bits of crust and cheese. It's a bit animal like, but licking the last of the cheese and sauce from between my fingers and grooming my fur, is an amazing experience and it works a lot better than napkins. I lean back and lick my chops, satisfied with my snack.

I check my watch, adjusting the wide cuff-like leather band that I switched to in order to prevent fur snags. A quick check of the monitor by the gate reveals that I have plenty of time. I don't like doing things at the last minute or having to rush. My eye briefly catches of one of the overhead monitors showing CNN; no doubt it's another depressing report about how the world is going to hell in a hand basket. I've never much paid attention to that stuff, especially not anymore. I'm content in my life and I don't need the weight of the world crushing me. It's at a strange angle to me and my neck is complaining at me to not bend that much any more. As I reorient my head to its standard forward position, something else catches my eye, a child. It really irritates me how parents never seem to be able to control their kids, especially in crowded places. He has the usual look of fascination and wonderment children give me. I guess I'm really nothing but a big dog to them, which is better than how their parents typically see me.

"You're a doggy!" He states the obvious.

"Last I checked." My cynicism is lost on children.

"Can I pet you?" I didn't see this one coming, I'm sarcastic too.

"I don't see why not?" I lean my head down for his smallish hand. I usually oblige such requests, it really does feel good. His frustrated looking mother is already zeroing in on the scene. But I ignore her, this feels too good, he obviously has a dog or knows someone who does. My body reacts beyond my own control, tail wagging behind me, unseen between the rows of chairs; I really hope no one's sitting behind me. Through partially slitted eyes, I can see his mother get closer.

"Ethan, leave the nice man alone." I half expect her grab his hand away.

"I really don't mind, ma'am." I struggle to keep my tongue from lolling out as I talk. My head stays fixed and the small hand rubs between my ears, which find their way to being folded back in the pure bliss of it. Humans don't know what they're missing. I know what she's thinking as she demands young Ethan to stop it, "how can he let himself be treated like an animal" or some other such thinking about keeping one's dignity. Children never judge like that, they see things for what they are on the outside. Adults always seem to be too concerned with being PC, unless they're the truly disgusted ones. The ones who think you're some kind of abomination or freak. For all I know she thinks that, and doesn't want her kid touching me because that'd spread my freakiness to him or some other such nonsense. Of course, there's no proof of how the change is caused and no proof it can be spread, but that never stops people from thinking that way.

As the mother puts her arm around her child and turns him to leave, I half expect her to confront me on what just happened, to tell me I did something wrong. I'm fully prepared to lecture her on parenting and not letting her kid get away from her. I'm quite surprised when she gives me a little rub between the ears and smiles at me, as if to say "I understand," or something like that. But she turns away and leaves before my brain can make sense of it. Never judge a book by its cover I guess, but then again, some people can't resist a cute dog.

---

The air handling systems in modern buildings are amazing. They keep the temperature perfect and completely exchange the air in a space in some extraordinarily short amount of time. This is a big benefit for those of us who have to have very sensitive noses. No objectionable odors hang around, but at the same time it makes a place feel almost dead. A human doesn't have the sense of disconnectedness this leads to. With far more keen senses you get used to seeing, hearing, and smelling people -- it makes people watching far more enjoyable, most of the time. Even with the air moving in and out at such high volumes, some smells just can't be stopped. It could just be the path that air is taking or that fact that I didn't position myself far away, but those cookies are really starting to smell really good and a single slice of pizza has never really been enough to keep me satisfied.

I slurp up the rest of my pop through the straw and gather my belongings up, hefting the laptop bag onto my back. I don't want to leave anything sitting around lest my bags are confiscated by the TSA as the recorded announcement regularly reminds us all in several languages. The inedible cardboard remnants of my meal find their final resting place in a conveniently placed trashcan as I approach the nicely lit display case of the compact Mrs. Field's. The diminutive oven behind the counter let's everyone know these cookies are relatively fresh, and in fact, the unmistakable aroma of baked goods is emanating from it as I stalk my prey.

The clerk seems distracted, either by talking to the person at the next counter or by her actual task, either way, this is my chance. I walk up to the case and crouch down to examine what they have to offer. I think she saw me, but not well. Soon I'm greeted by the standard, I'm only doing this because I have to, tone. "Can I help you?"

I rise up with a toothy grin -- which might look a bit less silly if I was really trying to look intimidating -- placing my paw-ish hands on the curved glass, claws clicking on it lightly. This elicits that primal response to anything with big sharp teeth of momentary shock as the brain grasps to come up with a plan, fight or flight. I do so love messing with people like this. She balks for a moment and then realizes what's going on, my face really looks more like an excited, friendly dog, especially when the wagging tail is taken into account. If it weren't for the clothing and decidedly more upright stance, I could be mistaken for a stray begging for a treat.

"Umm…yeah, can I get six of those little white chocolate macadamia nut ones, three M&M, and three chocolate chip?" I point to each tray with a stubby padded finger, even though I know she knows where they are. A dozen of these smallish cookies are some reduced price, but it's still more than they're probably worth. I'm a sucker for this sort of thing away. She bags them up with slick parchment paper and I watch. There are plenty of delightful looking treats, but I just can't resist white chocolate macadamia nut cookies. Thankfully, the whole "dogs and chocolate don't mix" seems to not affect me too much. That and the fact that I weigh over two hundred pounds certainly helps. The other kinds are thrown in for variety, the inevitable spur of the moment choices, and because they simply didn't have a dozen of what I was really after. Money changes hands after the standard procedures of asking if there's anything else I would like and I safely stow the bag away for later.

I check my watch, not much time before they start boarding, hopefully. Now is a good time to take care of something before I have to get onboard. Back through the food court area I go, claws lightly clicking on the easily cleaned tile floor, toward the restroom. This is where things get interesting and the four legged parts on a two legged frame really causes an issue, but you learn to adapt and not be too embarrassed by what you have to do. I duck into one of the stalls and I'll leave it at that, you can use your own imagination for this one. This avoids the inevitable awkward look from other patrons. I don't care if they're not even looking down there; I still have a hard time with people watching me. With things taken care of, I go to wash my hands. This is never particularly enjoyable, mostly because of the difficulty involved in drying furry paws. Blow driers don't even work on bare skin and it takes a fairly large number of paper towels to do a decent job of it. But I do manage, it only seems right to, and besides, I don't think licking them is going to do a very good job. I do know where my paws have been and I don't want that in my mouth.

Back by the gate, the crowd has gotten bigger and people are already lining up by the ticket scanner, waiting impatiently for the boarding call. I hang back a little, mostly to avoid bringing unwanted attention to myself. Staring is still unavoidable, however, several people aren't trying to hide it at all. I scan the crowd myself and do some staring of my own, man I hope she's sitting next to me. I wouldn't mind giving her some…

"At this time, Northwest would like to invite all first class passengers to begin boarding." My thoughts are tragically interrupted as the announcement comes over the loud speaker, one steely blue eye still on the girl. I let people go ahead. I could probably board early, giving the “anyone who needs extra time to be seated excuse, but I try to live life as normally as I possibly can. I work my way into the line, being careful to concentrate extra hard on controlling my tail. It really does have a bit of a mind of its own and I don’t want to end up hitting anyone with it. This gets infinitely more difficult as people crowd-in when standing in lines like this.

The attendant doesn't give me a second look and I hand her my crumpled ticket. "Have a good flight." I wonder how many times she's said that and not really thought about it. Walking down the slightly angled jet-way I have to adjust my stance a bit to compensate for the sloped floor, claws digging into the hard carpet on their own with each step. The flight attendants smile at me and I nod to them as I look for my seat, 18A: a window seat and a bit further back than I would have liked, but I don’t have Elite status and the flight was free, so I’m not going to complain too much. I always used to enjoy window seats, but at least it's fun to watch out the window. We all wait as people arrange their belongings and already seated people get up to let others in. The girl’s already seated and I smile at her as I go past and she smiles back. This is rather unfortunate, however, because it causes me to momentarily loose control of my tail and hit an already seated passenger. “I’m sorry! The damn thing just has a mind of its own.” I get a bit of a surprised look and a bit of an eye roll for my victim before my eyes go back up to the girl. I wonder if she likes dogs. I'm going to have to wait for her at the final destination to find out, provided I don't chicken out.

When I finally make it back to my row, I’m pleased to see the person with the isle seat isn’t there yet. Up my camera bag and down goes my special pillow. It's a custom made one with a slot for my tail so I don't have to sit on it when there is no hole in chair. Airlines seem reluctant to put tail slotted seats in planes, it's just as well; I don't want someone else to have access to it when I'm not looking. I carefully straighten the slight curl of it out and slot it into the pillow sitting down gently. To some people it might seem like a strange arrangement, but it's actually comfortable. Most people don't realize just where that thing branches off from your body, again with four legged parts on two legs.

I slot my backpack under the seat in front of me and put my iPod and magazine in the seat pock. Soon enough a stereotypical business man seems to be destined for the seat next to me. He looks at the row number, then at his seat, catching me in his gaze, and then he rechecks his ticket. I look up at him, having seen this and roll my eyes.

"I don't bite and I assure you I'm house broken." He looks surprised as if he doesn't expect me to be able to talk. Into the overhead goes his roller bag and into the seat next to me goes his ass. I just shake my head, some people. I really hope this guy's not a talker. For all the flights I've been on for work, I've had few single serving friends and I don't mind at all. Since the change the percentage has gone up, my body is a real conversation piece. Most people are genuinely curious about what it's like; others seem to think they know everything about it and love sharing their opinions on legal maters of the changed and what not. The latter are lucky I don't bite, most of the time.

Soon the rest of the passengers have boarded the plane, shuffling in through the hatch. Far too few actually go past me but I still try to distract as many people as I can. Most people never really notice, though they do scan the scene before them, they're quickly looking somewhere else before they recognize something strange. I do seem to blend in well with the interior of most planes, white walls and dark blue seats don't provide much contrast to white and dark gray fur. Some people do notice however, locking their eyes with mine, but they quickly turn their heads, embarrassed to stare at someone like that or maybe they just don't want to see the freak

Soon enough the plane is loaded and they close the door, my cell phone is already off and safely stowed. I reach into my bag and pull out my large, custom made earplugs and insert them past the thick fur of my ears. Air travel would be unbearable if not for these. The usual flickering of lights and drop off of air-conditioner airflow precedes the sudden rearward lurch as the pilots start to taxi the plane out. Once we're on our way the flight attendants go over the safety procedures, no one pays attention. I adjust the air nozzle above my head to get that cooling, hissing stream of air to cool me. The hot cabin of a plane is no place for someone covered in fur. Taxiing around DTW always takes far too much time, but it gives you plenty of time to check out the Sky Mall catalogue, the plethora of dog related products always makes me chuckle.

---

As soon as we reach a suitable altitude out come my ear plugs and in go my ear buds. I hate ear buds, I always have, but when your ears are no longer on the sides of your head, you don't have much of a choice. They're made just like ear monitors used by musicians who don't want to go deaf from playing concerts and have surprisingly high quality sound and not having to put your iPod on full blast is a nice thing to experience. I read though my magazines, then remember the cookies safely tucked away, waiting to be devoured. I indulge myself in a couple; you can never have just one, especially when they're such an unsatisfyingly small size. The flavors mingle in my muzzle as I crunch down on the nuts gleefully like I'm trying to get at the marrow of a bone as the chocolate melts in my warm mouth. The oils from the nuts travel up the back of my throat and into my nose; it's amazing to experience tastes and smells of things you love like this. I can see the guy sitting next to me kind of looking at me in the corner of my eye, frankly, I don't really care, I'm enjoying myself too much.

My ear pieces only cut out the most annoyingly loud sounds, so I have no trouble hearing when they make the announcement for the beverage service. Thankfully, the airlines are still generous enough to give out free drinks, though the barely-half can you get is hardly enough, it's better than having to pay a dollar for it like the nuts. I double check something in my complimentary copy of NWA World Traveler confidently located in the seat pouch. It is five dollars for liquor, just as I suspected. I think I’m going to have to indulge myself, it’s not like I’m going to be driving anyway. The smell of cheap coffee wafts down the cabin of the plane past me, likely unnoticed by most as the carts started to make their way down the isle. I pull a five dollar bill from my wallet and put down my tray, waiting my turn as the flight attendant starts asking people what they want. As she approaches my row, I pull out one of the ear buds, as to not appear rude, even though I know exactly what she is going to be asking.

"Can I get you anything to drink sir?" She smiles that standard smile as she looks at me.

"Diet Pepsi," I hate Pepsi, but I don't have any choice, "and Jack Daniels."

“Five dollars please.” On command, I hand over the bill.

She shuffles through the drawers on the cart, producing a miniature version of the familiar black and white labeled bottle of Tennessee Whiskey and then fills the funny little cup with ice and hands it to me, a long with a napkin, followed by a freshly opened can of pop. Apparently some assembly is required. I pull the "for your protection" seal off the top of the bottle with a claw, they are quite useful for such things and it looks much better than trying to gnaw it off. The scent of whiskey fills my nose as I pour the contents of the bottle over my ice, I drink it in, enjoying all the subtle flavors no human can ever enjoy. I've considered picking up wine tasting, but I think liquor and beer are far more enjoyable, of course. It's not like they don't get judged too, but I have enough hobbies as it is. Then comes the dark caramel-brown of the artificially sweetened cola, its aroma isn't nearly as satisfying. The artificial flavors used in modern soft drinks smell just that, artificial.

I have a feeling the stuff-shirt next to me expects that the big dog is going to lap his drink up. Quite honestly, I've never done that, not even as a joke, I still have a sense of dignity, despite the collar. The drink is consumed in the same manner as any other on the flight. Typically, I drink through a straw, it's just so much easier, but seems rather inappropriate to drink a cocktail through a straw. It did take me quite a bit of practice to get this right, and a lot of damp fur. Soon enough, the first cup load is gone, drinks never last long around me, and I refill it with the remainder of the can, there's enough room, as some ice doesn't appear to have made it. I lean back, lazily sipping away as the alcohol starts to work its magic. I never know if it's the speed I drink at, lack of tolerance, or the fact that I usually drink on an empty stomach, but I always get to this point pretty quickly.

As I return to reading, I yawn and lick my chops with my long tongue; half hoping my single serving annoyance is looking. Why don't I ever get the damn arm rest? He does smell a little nervous and he's definitely sweating. The unmistakable click of a seat belt buckle makes it past my ear buds and private performance of "Brian Wilson" as the business man gets up and heads for the restroom. The armrest is claimed as mine. While he's up, they start collecting trash, I hand over the empty cup and pop can, making a point to keep the little liquor bottle, which I put in my bag. I never got over the college standard of keeping bottles, especially unusual ones. As I sit back, I check my watch; it shouldn't be too much longer now.

The plane is obviously sloped downward as the announcement comes on to turn off and stow electronic devices. Out come the ear-buds and in go the ear plugs, landing is terribly noisy. I put my digital point and shoot in my shirt pocket so I can nab a few shots as the plane flies over Memphis. I've never been here before. I hope I can get to Graceland. The camera is such a convenient size, I prefer keeping it in my shirt pocket, and it’s less likely to get further screen damage that way. Fortunately, most of the shirts I wear anymore have pockets. My wardrobe mostly consists of bowling shirts, since they're all button up. It's not like I have antlers or horns, but getting a T-shirt on over a muzzle and canid ears is still a pain in the tail.

Landings are always such a pain, such anticipation of what's coming, that last half hour can seem incredibly long. They give the local weather conditions, hotter than Detroit, big surprise there. I lean my head down and watch out the little porthole in the fuselage and rebelliously take a few pictures as we float over the city. The airport gets closer and things start looking bigger. Soon the plane is down and the engines are thrown fully into reverse and complaining about it loudly. Taxiing to the gate takes forever, just like at Detroit, hub airports suck. As soon as the plane pulls up the gate people are standing, of course my neighbor is already up, opening the overhead bin to get his roller bag. I take a more subtle approach, though I know I wouldn't be here long. Since he's already in the aisle, I stand up and stretch a bit, pulling the pillow off my tail and giving it a good wag to make sure everything is still working alright.

It takes some time and shuffling of people and confusion about who goes first, but soon enough. I'm walking off the plane. The usual exchanging brief pleasantries with the flight attendants and co-pilot proceed as normal. Up and out of the warm jet way and into the terminal building my fellow passengers and I go. I'm greeted with lots of new smells in the terminal, the one really sticking out in my mind is barbeque, and I know I'm really going to have to get some of that while I'm down here. Subconsciously, I lick my nose, only making all those wonderful smells come out more and gain an added level of complexity. The building is unfamiliar to me, but it's still quite easy to work out where I need to go.

I can only figure the girl’s off on her way, her scent is in the air, but it will settle and I’m not about to get on all fours to try and track her. As I wander further into the airport, someone taps on my shoulder and I reflexively spin to see who it is. There’s no one there, but my ears flick around to the sound of giggling. I turn my head, followed by my body and there she is.

“I saw you making eyes at me.” Her expression quickly went serious after her little joke on me.

I can feel my ears get warm, I’m sure they’re quite red, despite the thick layer of fur.

"So, what's it like?" She returns to a much brighter disposition, satisfied in her embarrassing of me.

My brain searches for a reaction, she smells so great and it's really distracting. She's got on some kind of perfume, which normally gives me a headache, but this is subtle and sweet. "It's not bad, you get used to it pretty quickly, then it gets kind of fun." I answer her excitedly, normally I hate that question, but for a beautiful lady, I'll answer anything.

"I'm Julie, by they way." She holds out her hand.

"I'm Adam," I respond as I carefully shake her hand with my stubby fingers, trying not to grip too hard, but firm enough to appear masculine, I hate weak handshakes. The thought of a dog doing a trick always runs through my mind when I shake hands. I really appreciate it when people don’t say “shake” to me. "Are you from Detroit too?"

She giggles a little, "Sorry, your fur kind of tickled me there a little. I'm from near Detroit; I'm here to see family for the weekend." The conversation goes on from there for longer than I realize. She's surprisingly receptive to me and she seems genuinely fascinated by me. I'm obviously enjoying myself; my tail is an obvious tell, wagging away behind me. We promise to meet back home, exchanging business cards and personal numbers. I've never done something like that before; I might have to start trying this more often if it works out well.

---

When the time comes for us to go our separate ways, I'm walking on clouds all the way out to local friend. He’s been waiting for me longer than he expected to have to. We've met several times before, once since I was changed, so he doesn’t spend anytime gawking at me.

"Did you get lost?" He asks in mock annoyance.

"No, I met a girl." I grin coyly, obviously satisfied with myself.

We pick up my suitcase and head out for his car, where once again, the pillow is utilized. I never expect people to make special accommodations for me. As we pull onto the highway, he rolls down my window using his controls. "you can stick your head out if you want." I glare at him and give him a bit of a growl, he rolls it back up and we have a good laugh about it.

The hotel for the weekend's events isn't far from the airport, but some of our mutual friends are already at his place, so we go back there to get them before heading out to the hotel. I've met them all before, some I haven’t seen since before the change, some I've seen after. Well, except for his cat, who seems to have taken great interest in my tail. We're not a particularly "touchy" bunch, so my fur goes mostly undisturbed, which is just as well, I can't imagine how messed up it's going to get this weekend.

It's time to head to the hotel, I'm apprehensive about it, I don't like being an attention magnet, but I know it's going to happen. Very few of the changed are actually interested in what this convention is about, and I doubt many would be willing to do this. We park and walk up to the building, signs of the strange invaders are already showing, cars with strange bumper stickers with inside jokes, odd vanity plates, and paw print stickers on windows.

I pant a little from the heat and the asphalt is hot under my paw pads. This is a rare occasion as my tail seems to hang limply behind me, stalled by the nervousness as I enter the building. My heart is pounding in my chest. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. I mean, a changed person going to a furry convention. And not just any changed person, a freaking husky; the new fox of furrydom. I must be a masochist.

The scene is nothing I haven’t experienced before; it’s just in a new place for me. There are people chatting and hugging and walking around in fursuits. Seeing those eases my mind a bit. It’ll probably be a while before anyone really notices me. I try not to do anything to get me noticed. My tail still seems a bit limp, which should help, and I’m trying extra hard to keep my ears from moving. However, trying to hold a conversation isn’t helping my cause. Well, that and my hind paws aren’t quite as big and puffy as a typical costume’s.

Soon enough I’m catching more than glances. People are pulling out cameras down right staring at me in awe. The though that this wasn’t such a good idea is creeping back into my head. I almost want to run back outside and back home, I’m sure I could find something else to do for a weekend in Memphis. I’m not going to though; I promised myself I’d do this. It’s better to get it over and done with at a smaller con.

We manage to make it registration without too much fuss. The line isn’t very long. Everyone else already had registered; they’re just keeping me company as I make my way to one of the workers checking people in. I pull out my driver’s license, this time pulling it fully out of my wallet.

“Name?”

“Adam Minter.” I present my ID and then get a long look. At first I get the distinct impression that he’s not too happy because I’m in a fursuit, then comes the recognition that I’m not. He takes my driver’s license and looks between the picture on it and my face a few times. “It’s real.” He blushes and looks down at the computer screen, checking me off and sending my badge to the printer. I get my license back and return it to my wallet, upside down; I’ll just fix it later.

Down by the printers one of the workers calls out “MintzBuck.”

I raise my hand, “Right here.”

I get a look, not the usual “oh my god, a real life furry,” it’s more of a “you’re joking right?” I take it, along with the badge holder and program book, with a big smile on my muzzle, having successfully messed with someone else’s head.

“You really got MintzBuck on your badge?”

“Yeah, why not? I still use that name most of the time.” I grin, “I may be husky but I’m still bucky on the inside.”

My statement results in the typical groaning over a bad joke.

---

Need More stuff in here

---

I wake up in the middle of the night, but I don’t get up. I just don’t feel comfortable at all. I’m cold for the first time in months, but I’ far too groggy to process what that means. I just roll over and tightened the blankets over me, trying to get comfortable. I keep drifting in and out of sleep, tossing and turning. I don’t care what time it is, I just want to sleep. I must have just gotten sick or something. Eventually, I am able to fall asleep.

“Hey, get up, it’s almost 11.”

“Huh?” I roll over onto my back and pull the covers, rubbing at my bleary eyes.

“Umm….Mintz?”

“What?” I keep rubbing my eyes, but they’re just not clearing out.

“You’re human.” I’m told very mater-of-factly.

“Haha, very funny.” But it’s not a joke, I didn’t notice at first, but my hands aren’t hitting a muzzle. I’m lying on my back and I don’t feel a tail under me, it just doesn’t feel right. “Holy shit…”

I start examining myself in disbelief, it’s not a dream or a nightmare; it’s real. Which explains why I can’t see anything, I don’t have my glasses or contacts. It’s just like when I changed; I’m now inhabiting a foreign body. Even though it’s familiar, it just doesn’t feel like I’m me. I take a deep breath, but none of the smells I’m used to and depend on are there. The world seems dead without them. My ears aren’t moving around, but I feel like they should be. It’s like I’m deaf.

I sit there, in shock. I can feel the hole in my underwear were my tail should be protruding through, it feels really bad. All of my clothes are going to be like that. And shoes, I don’t have any shoes either. Not to mention the fact that I’m now basically blind too.

Then, I start noticing some odd things. I don’t seem to have a beard, but I know I had one before and my hair seems shorter. Not to mention the fact that I seem to have a much smaller gut. The only thing I can manage to say is “These sheets are really itchy.” My mind is reeling. Nothing is making sense anymore.

“Well, how long has it been since you actually had anything touching your skin?”

It’s worse than when I changed, but that’s probably because it wasn’t something I was terribly upset about. How many furries would really be upset about being turned into an anthropomorphic animal?