I’ve heard it said that there are places where time passes differently than it ordinarily does. As much a fan of science fiction and time travel stories as I am (I’ve dabbled in the genre, trying to freshen it a bit), I don’t imagine that what we call time actually slows or speeds up, but that it’s merely our sense of it. The two best clichés to describe this are, “Time flies when you’re having fun” and “Time drags when you’re waiting for Alexa to tell you that your Amazon package has been delivered.” To be highbrow, I can quote St. Augustine, who wrote, “What is time? If no one asks me, I know; but if I wanted to explain it to one who asks me, I plainly do not know.” For a modern reference, I cite Franz Kafka’s “A Common Confusion.”

This waxing philosophic is my way of avoiding saying exactly how much time passed as I got to know more of the inhabitants of The Menagerie. I have kept the dates of my first meeting Phil (the liger owner and bar-back of the club), my first meeting Abram, and the first time that the kitsune and I made love, all to celebrate their anniversaries. Well before the first of those anniversaries, I found myself being enveloped, embraced, taken into the family that is the heart of The Menagerie, and thus did I discover that time slows down when you appreciate it properly. The things that happened to me, the joys that I discovered, began to fill my time and my life in way that I hadn’t dreamed before.

More exaggeration, Tristan? I hear the detractors in my life tell me. I just smile, continuing to tell my stories. Decide for yourself.

Spending time with my family became so frequent that some wondered when I would move in. The sum of the hints was that there should be plenty of space in Abram’s rooms, especially since I spent so much time there anyway. A few others had suggested that I might enjoy sharing their rooms instead or as well, and there were conversations and well-staged in-fighting that resembled some of the great feuds from the golden days of radio. A debate, in the style of presidential primaries, was proposed to find an answer once and for all, and the props crew (properly called “grips” in stage and film parlance, although the entendre was almost too much to bear) was ready to build a dais for the occasion. This wildly comical jesting was part of being family, and it only brought us closer.

Being the writer in the family, and therefore the lynx-like knower of stories, I got to hear tales from each member of the lovely furs who had adopted me into their fold. I found myself being a confidant, a friendly ear, a shoulder to cry on or, as I jested with them, an “emotional support wolf.” They all knew that I would never repeat a tale that was private, even to other family members. I wanted to be true to each and every one. Not only was it the right thing to do, it also saved my family a fortune in therapist fees.

My unofficial role as counselor came up one night when Abram and I were cuddled on his couch. He had been dancing earlier and, as always, I found myself besotted by the heat of his body and the glorious intensity of his scent. Even as much as it stirred my libido, the sensual delights did not always culminate in sexuality. It did, however, make our emotional bond that much stronger as we talked. He pet my headfur tenderly as I lay my head against his chest, giving serious consideration to learning how to purr. Chuckling softly, the fox inquired, “Are you fully awake, sweet wolf?”

“Enjoying the dream of snuggling a most beloved kitsune dancer.” I smiled, giving him a gentle squeeze around his middle. “Is there something more I should be aware of?”

“Just wondering if I might ask a favor of you.” He bent down to give my eartip a kiss. “It’s about Mac.”

I turned to give his warm, flat belly a return kiss before rearranging myself to sit next to him properly. “Is he okay?”

“Mostly, yes. I think he might want someone to talk to.”

McHenry “Mac” Yarbrough is a lean, muscular hare, a black-tailed jackrabbit, to be precise. Generally quiet, the sort who plays close to the vest until he gets to know you, Mac was more acrobat than dancer; his routines, however, were always spectacular displays of (easy to guess) legwork. It was my understanding that he was often sought after, although not often successfully, in another venue as well. As I’ve mentioned elsewhere, the plying of the oldest profession doesn’t faze me in the slightest; the only thing that disturbs me about it is that it is still illegal.

“Do you know what about?” I asked.

“Truthfully, I don’t know.”

I smiled affectionately at the fox. “Understood, luv.”

He returned the smile with a tender caress of my cheek. “You have learned well.”

“You’re a fine teacher. Have you any suggestion regarding how to approach him?”

The kitsune took his turn to lean on my belly, sighing happily. “I told him to expect you; you can set up a meeting when you both have some time.”

“Soon?”

“Not critical.”

I pet his headfur, still smiling. “I’ll need something more specific, dearest Abram. My sensation is that there may be some sort of turning point involved.”

He gave me a squeeze, making me realize how we mirror one another, physically, mentally, emotionally. “If you’re free tomorrow, it would be wonderful.”

“For family, I am free… or at least reasonably priced.”

Chuckling gave way to a murring sigh of pleasure as I began skritching behind his ears, just the way that he had taught me he liked. In moments, he had melted happily on my belly, his tongue sticking out just past his lips, his three tails offering slow wags of contentment.

Who says you can’t teach an old wolf new tricks?

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

After being introduced to The Menagerie, all those weeks ago, I had been reluctant to spend too much time there. My writing had been going poorly, as had so many other aspects of my life. I had felt that perhaps I should fix those things before joining in with my newfound family. I have explained already in these tales that, even with my emotional mange, the family took me in quite happily. More than that, the bonds and security that I found among them helped me discover my creative voice again; words poured from me so well that I found myself feeling not the slightest bit guilty about taking time to be with my family. The oft-spoken, rarely-found work/life balance had been struck, and without breaking a sweat (unless you count my happy couplings with Abram, of course).

So it was that I gradually became used to the raucous goings-on of the strip nights, where I got to see even more of certain members of my family than I had previously. It was always a joy to watch Abram (“Servo”) perform, sometimes from the wings, where I would wrap him up in his terrycloth robe and help him ensure that his evening’s earnings were properly collected (tips didn’t always stay tucked inside the elastic). Other family members, I watched as far back from the stage as I could, usually the far end of the bar, where Phil would keep a secret stash of cocoa for us both. I’m not a drinker of alcohol, these days, but the liger would occasionally add as little as 7ml of Kalua, Grand Marinier, or peppermint schnapps to my mug, for the hint of flavor without the whack of the spirits. On one occasion, 15ml of Bailey’s Irish Cream was a special treat.

From that remote post, I watched several dancers, including guests to the establishment, booked in for their popularity in more distant venues. A routine called “The Summoning” featured a fennec vixen as the summoner and a hugely buffed, shaggy muskox as the devil who answers her call. The choreography was as intricate as it was stimulating; by the end of it, there didn’t seem to have been a single place on the muskox’s body that the vixen had not tended to, including riding his shoulders, dangling from his horns, and appearing to be taken by him from above. That’s too lurid a description for a dance of remarkable power and eroticism that was sexy as hell yet not obscene. It was quite the accomplishment.

Oh yes, in case I hadn’t mentioned: The club catered to all genders as best it could. (One “tell” of my age is my inability to comprehend more than the two genders I grew up with; I do my best to understand, so please forgive any lapses in sensitivity.) My family is made up of males, females, and other identities. Not all perform, but I’ve watched those who do. There’s talent there, not merely lewd, disinterested gyration. This particular night, I was concerned with only one performer, and he had only given one performance. Dancers often perform twice in an evening, thrice if they’re up to it, or if someone is Otherwise Engaged.

After Mac’s dance (which netted him some good tips, from what I could see), I sat at what was very nearly My Stool the end of the bar. The clientele were less rowdy between sets, although still plenty loud. Waitstaff took drinks, cleaned tables quickly, and the ATM was often busy during the interims as well. (Near it, a change machine was always well-stocked with singles to be put into various thongs.)

Phil set a mug before me, one bearing the inscription, Be careful, or I’ll put you in my book! He had found it online, not long after I had told him about this curse hurled by many writers over the years. The cup was brimming with hot dark cocoa, and my nose detected just a hint of cinnamon. I raised an eyebrow. “Cinnamon schnapps?”

“A tiny amount of Goldschläger,” the liger beamed at me. “Slightly higher proof than DeKuyper’s Hot Damn, but I think it’s a better match to the cocoa.”

I paused to savor the flavor. “You’ve never failed me, Phil. It’s lovely. Thank you.” He tended to requests from one of the servers and began preparing the orders. “Mac only have one set tonight?”

“Oh-ee,” the liger abbreviated, his forepaws not missing a beat during his mixing.

Looking toward the green ESCORTED ONLY door, I saw Octavia and Theo attending. I didn’t imagine that any urgency was needed, so I enjoyed my cocoa a while longer. It would be unkind of me to take mental inventory of those who entered and left by way of that door, but a writer is a sponge for his surroundings, no matter where he may be. None of the clients was known to me, and any distinguishing characteristics would never be made public. I’ve been known to go through those doors myself, after all, although only to get from the bar into the familial living quarters upstairs. Some might wonder about my presence in the hallway. I was flattered that, having seen me in the hall one evening, a rather comely skunk in his early thirties flicked his expressive tail at me and, later, asked Wilford (his evening’s companion) if he could engage me some night. I’ve not yet been able to decide how to respond. Being desired is nice; making money is also nice; the male himself was certainly attractive and, according to Wilford, the palette of his appetites was reasonably within my own range of interests. Could I? Abram and I are still talking it over.

When I had finished about half of my cocoa, I asked Phil to keep the rest under the bar for me and made my way to the green door. Octavia, a well-formed poodle with modest fur-trimming, smiled at me as I approached. Leaning toward her, to be heard more clearly over the enthusiasm aimed at the stage, I asked, “Is Mac further booked for the evening?”

“He might be free after a while,” she assured me, “and no one else has requested him tonight. Message?”

“Just wanted a chat.”

She nodded, turning toward a forty-something German shepherd who wouldn’t meet anyone’s eyes. I discreetly looked away as well, trying not to hear what the dog was seeking. His hesitation told me that he hadn’t someone in particular in mind. Octavia would do right by him; unless his tastes were too sordid or physically dangerous, someone here will help take away his pain, at least for an hour or so.

Returning to my stool, I found that Phil had warmed up the cocoa in the microwave, and I saluted him as I took a restorative sip. The crowd was being particularly enthusiastic for our dancers tonight; I expected there to be quite the haul for them before the 1am closing time. I likely would be long abed by then, unless Mac needed to talk for longer than that.

As my cup ranneth under, Markus took the stage. The golden fox was immensely popular, for all the right reasons, and the bar rang to the rafters with a noise level that really started to hurt my ears. I was delighted for Markus; for me, tonight at least, it was a bit much. I signaled to Phil my intentions to retire and headed again for the green door. I gave Octavia and Theo hugs and chaste kisses as I went past. Family hath its privileges.

The corridors on both floors of this wing are wide, with the five rooms on this floor being on the left. I was alone in the hall as I padded toward the door on the right, marked PRIVATE and guarded by a keypad lock. The thick carpeting muffled any pawsteps here, and it takes quite an enthusiastic cry to get past the soundproofing of the rooms. The only way to know if a room was occupied was to make note of a tiny red LED tucked discreetly in the ceiling above the door. I don’t think even the regular clients knew about them. Three were lit, each nearly hidden above the jamb of their doors. My experience told me that this was a comparatively busy night. Contrary to popular belief about the club, this was not where the majority of its money was made.

Making my way through the security door and up the stairs, I continued to revel in the relative quiet. Someone had his door open a bit, allowing soft strains of music to escape. There are “quiet hours” on this floor, from 3am to noon, to accommodate the nocturnal cycles of the residents and performers. I smiled softly at the names of my family on their respective doors. My idea had been to go back to Abram’s rooms to relax until Mac was available. Impulse made me pause at his door and knock softly.

“Go away, please.”

I started. “Mac? It’s Tristan. May I help you?”

The formality had taken some getting used to, but it worked well. Mac asked instead of demanding; I offered help instead of trying to get information (“Are you okay? What’s wrong?”). It was a form of metacommunication that we, as family, tried very hard to adhere to. Not easy. It’s why being a good family takes work.

Waiting was the difficult part. I quickly went over the touchstones of our familial “safe words,” as I teasingly called them during my learning about them. I had one more thing I could say that would be safe for us both.

“I’m here for you when you wish, Mac.”

A brief pause before I heard, “A moment, please.”

“Of course.”

Not more than ten seconds plodded past before I heard, “Come in, Tristan.”

Two more seconds to avoid bursting in like the Spanish Inquisition, and I gently pressed the lever to enter the room.

I’d not been in Mac’s rooms before, and my writer’s detail-absorbing nature wanted to catalog everything for whatever it could tell me about the jackrabbit. I knew that his was like all of the other basic rooms in size and shape: A living area, a dorm-sized kitchenette and, through the far door, a bedroom with ensuite. (Abram’s larger rooms and kitchenette-plus were part of his design.) Instead, I made myself focus on the hare himself, whose attire confused me. Seated in a chair, he was covered in an overlarge robe that hung down over his hindpaws, and his head, ears, and much of his face were covered by a towel.

“Please forgive me,” he said. “I’ve not showered yet.”

All five rooms downstairs had their own ensuites; they were, in essence, large motel rooms. “I understand.”

“No, you don’t.”

I sat in another chair, across from him. Keeping my voice mild, I said, “Not yet, I don’t.”

He hunched over, robe-covered forepaws on his knees. “I’m sorry.”

“How may I help?”

After another moment, I heard a soft snerking noise from behind the towel. “Do you have to be so damned understanding?”

“Would you like my snarky asshole mode, or my turn everything to my own self-interest attitude?”

My relief at hearing his soft laugh was huge. “I’ll go with your usual smart-assed self.”

“Proud to serve,” I returned with a smile. More seriously, I added, “You must really be hurting, Mac.”

He swallowed. “Yeah.”

“I’m here. I’m listening.”

Several moments passed. It was difficult to get any sort of read on him, as the only thing I could see was his eyes, peering over the top of the towel that covered his muzzle. I could only imagine that his long ears couldn’t be all that comfortable, as they had to have been folded back against his head. I knew enough lapine anatomy to know that they are capable of doing that; in fact, he probably folded them down across his back when he slept. At the moment, I had the idea that he was far from comfortable this way. The emotion that I could sense from his gaze was need. I had no idea what for, but the need was powerful, perhaps even terrible.

“Don’t know where to start.”

“Can you describe what you’re feeling?”

“Embarrassed.” A pause, considering. “Frightened. Conflicted, hurting, really confused and…” His eyes begged me from behind the layers of towel. “I need to be…”

I took the chance. “Mac, would you share your fur with me?”

His hesitation made me think that I’d guessed wrong. At length, he said, “I haven’t showered.”

“Whatever will make you feel more comfortable. Would you give me your forepaws first?” I felt a need to explain. “The contact is meant to help ground you. It usually helps me, anyway.”

“But I haven’t…”

Reaching gently toward him. “It’s okay, Mac. Take my paws. Please.”

He moved with a strange urgency, gripping my forepaws tightly. I could feel the shaking, and my empathic nature, so nurtured and encouraged by Abram, felt from him a rushing of pain and neediness — emotions I knew all too well. I held on, tried to will my reassurances to him through my touch. I was so whelmed by those feelings that it took me several seconds to realize that his paws were the wrong color.

My surprise registered in his own eyes, and he tried to pull away from me. I held on to his forepaws with mine, held his eyes with mine. “Mac,” I whispered. His shaking left his paws and took up in his entire body. “Mac,” I repeated softly, “I’m here for you. I’m not going anywhere.” I leaned toward him, to make sure that he heard me with more than just his ears. “I won’t desert my family.”

Slowly, resistance loosened its grip on him, and we released each others paws as well. He unwound the towel from around his muzzle and head, and he brought his ears back up to their more alert position. It was then that I got the full effect of his appearance.

The transformation was striking; had I glimpsed him in a crowd, from a distance, I’m not sure I’d have recognized him. Nearly all of his coloration, including the distinctive oval-shaped patch around his left eye, had been covered over with a pale base, then dotted with tan, brown, and black markings. His nose quivered with rapid breathing, and the expression in his eyes was one of great fear. I did not know the source of it… but I had a terrible suspicion.

“How much…?”

“All of me,” he breathed.

I nodded, getting to my hindpaws. “Shower. Now.”

Standing took him a moment, and I helped him to the ensuite. He seemed weak at the knees, very slightly disoriented. I recognized the symptoms, having had them myself, in my tortured past. Sitting on the closed toilet lid, he held himself about his middle as I readied the shower. He blinked at me as I began taking off my own clothes. When I was stripped to the fur, I got him to stand. Both the towel and the robe had some of the furpaint rubbed off on them; I tossed them into a corner, to be dealt with later. The hare’s entire body had been painted, less in some places, more in others, and the sticky remains of his client’s copious exuberance had made irregular trails across his chest and belly.

Gently, I guided him into the shower, got him to face the wall, propping himself by his forepaws. I used the shower wand to get him soaked down, then applied soap to my own forepaws and got to work. I was slow, careful, letting him regain himself in his own time. The furpaint came off more easily than I could have hoped, and its strange colors ran down into the drain in eerie similarity to a moment in a Hitchcock film. After a few minutes, I had him turn, leaning his shoulders against the wall, and cleaned his body properly. He managed to wash his own face and ears; I made sure his headfur was clean, gave one more inspection to make sure that his fur was free of any pigments that were not his own.

Both of us were soaked, but he was more aware than before. He got towels from the rack while I activated the wall blowers. I dried him off quickly; Mac helped me with my thicker fur. When we were done, he reached up to cup my cheek with one palm, looking into my eyes.

“It is warmth to us both,” he Responded, and he led us to his bed.

For a long time, we simply lay together, holding each other. I did my best to let my feelings be open without pressuring him to talk. Empathy can be invasive, as Abram had taught me. I wanted to know, to understand, but it was important to let it be on Mac’s terms. Rushing ahead would only put more pressure on him, and neither of us needed that.

At length, he shifted a little in our embrace, looked into my eyes. “Thank you,” he said.

“Family,” I whispered.

He smiled wanly. “I didn’t mean for all this to get dumped on you all at once.”

“Abram told me that you wanted to talk.”

“That was before…” He swallowed. “This hadn’t happened yet. This is new. Before, I needed to talk; now, I…”

“Now, you need it even more. You’re just not sure if you can.”

Mac gazed at me with mild disbelief. “You really can read minds,” he said with certainty.

I shook my head. “I know the aftereffects of rape.”

“He didn’t… it wasn’t like that. He wasn’t inside me.”

Reaching up to pet his cheek tenderly, I spoke softly. “I was turned into a cock-sleeve by males who took away everything I knew about myself. They made me into an object. I wasn’t there for them, just my body, just my tailhole. Everything that was Tristan was eradicated during those horrible minutes.”

A dawning in his eyes, a terrible realization.

“Mac, I’m here for you.” I put my forepaw flat to his chest, over his heart, pledging myself to him. “Whatever you may need. Do you want me to call for Phil, or Abram…?”

“I…” he tried. “I don’t…”

Damn me for an idiot, too soon, too soon…! I held him, feeling him tremble in my arms. The writer in me wanted more words, the empath wanted emotion, the Querant wanted respect for the warmth, the grounding. I stayed where I was, trying not to make things worse…

“Willowbank,” the hare panted breathlessly.

“Mac?”

“Willowbank,” he said, more firmly, more certainly.

“I don’t know what—”

“Willowbank.” Clarity, conviction.

His eyes sought mine, caught them, made me realize that he had calmed himself. I could not begin to understand what had happened. He smiled softly at me, nodding. Before I could ask what was going on, I heard the door from the hallway open and shut. Entering without a knock, without being asked in, who would…

“I’m here, Mac. And yes, Tristan, I heard your call, too.” Abram sat on the end of the bed, regarding us with deepest affection. “Now… tell me what’s happened.”

…to be continued