I didn’t ask to be this. I didn’t ask to be afraid. I didn’t ask to be depressed. But most of all, I did not ASK to be canine.
I would much rather be something else. I’d rather be a spotty-coated leopard, or a wild-running brumby, or a quick-foot jackrabbit, or a sharp-witted porpoise, or a normal-functioning human.
But that’s NOT what I am. I’m wolf, and it’s not all beautiful, it’s not all romance and wild thoughts. It’s sex and hormones, it’s smells and marking, it’s territory fights and knowing not to turn your back to anyone, it’s carrion and meat and not regretting the kill, it’s submission and dominance, it’s piss and shit and blood.
It’s a fluffy tail and pointy ears and coarse fur and a tapered muzzle and big yellow teeth and thick claws and instincts and intellect, all rolled up underneath where you can’t see them.
It’s not faith, it’s not meditation, it’s not soul-searching, it’s not dreams, it’s not soul-names. It’s thinking and knowing and observing and running and playing and feeling and needing.
It’s not religious, it’s not personal choice… The only choice I made was to accept myself. And as much as I want to be accepted for what I am, I know that it doesn’t matter. I know that no matter whether you believe me or not, whether you think I am being silly, whether you think I’m insane, or whether you just don’t understand, IT DOESN’T MATTER.
I will still be me, and you will still be you. I don’t want anything from you, nor do I need anything. Just grant me the right to be me.