blackbirds frying on a wire

Walking through alleyways, taking shortcuts into overgrown empty lots, strolling into a claustrophobic corner store for a small break from the summer heat by the drink fridge. Learning the best bus routes to avoid the tourist crowds, getting to know the subway schedule by heart.

Coyote loves sitting in a quiet shady corner of a busy park and eating a greasy sandwich from the local shop for lunch, and coyote kind of likes the smell of beer and sweat and other bodily fluids that wafts out of busy bars on summer nights. Coyote watches hungrily when the rabbits are out nibbling on people's gardens in the early mornings, and coyote quietly protests every rat not chased when they scurry along the sidewalk at night. Coyote wants ice cream for dinner even when its vegan and teriyaki for dessert even when its been in the fridge for a day (or two) too long, and coyote wishes he had just a little bit less impulse control at the farmers market when the fresh fish are out.

Maybe this is part of why I don't draw as strong a delineation between human and animal as some therians do, nor reject humanity as strongly as some do. The coyote in me is animal and yet delights in humanity, wants to sniff around and make a practical home in the margins beneath blackberry brambles and concrete rather than dream fruitlessly of an idealized life in human-untouched wilderness. The wilderness doesn't have teriyaki.

Of course, I love “the wilderness” too, but I recognize how much the idea of wilderness is a constructed concept that's, paradoxically, deeply wrapped up in human perception. So many “untouched” places have been stewarded by human hands for thousands of years. So many wilderness documentaries of far off lands are a camera behind which sits an extensive film crew and bustling roads and towns full of human life.

I think it's more just the scavenger in me instead, wanting to sniff around under muddy rocks and peer hungrily into life-filled puddles. It makes me wish my eyes and nose were closer to the ground, that my back wasn't complaining after a couple hours of crouching down and bending over.

Having a cat around 24/7 for the first time in my life has been a learning experience, both on a practical level and on a nonhuman level. I've always loved cats and enjoyed spending time around them, but that time was limited in childhood because my father was allergic and in adulthood due to not being in a stable enough housing or financial situation for a pet until recently. I grew up with dogs and love them too, but always figured that I would vibe much better with a cat at home given my sensory issues.

Parts of that assumption have proved false while others have stood the test of cat ownership, and overall it's an enjoyable experience, but the difference in expectation vs experience has had me questioning my identity in the past few months.

For the last few years I'd kind of settled into thinking of myself as a feline therian but canine hearted. My connection to coyotes has been the longest lasting and most important part of my identity for the past twenty odd years, but part of me always felt that cat was more of at the core of who I am and coyote was a hearttype that threaded through my more everyday and archetypal experience but didn't run as deeply.

I've been coming to realize though that I think the truth is probably more the opposite. What I connected with in felininity was more it's outward archetype, while I find the actual day to day of feline existence rather alien. There are similarities and a great deal of empathy there sure, but not the easy instinctive Knowing that I experience with canids even when they're of the varieties that are too bubbly and social to be altogether comfortable for me.

Which brings me to watching birds out the window with my cat. Both of us engaged in the same fascination and a similar hunger - I'm both a birder by hobby/appreciation and an animal who sees small moving animals and considers them instantly as tasty little treats, for all that I don't act on that except in a more formal hunting/gathering capacity. There's so much commonality between us in this and a million other little moments, and I've never seen a domestic dog do anything like this.

Yet it's like we speak a different language while doing the same thing, two approaches to a much older predatory instinct. Perhaps the commonality all along was less the species itself and more the greater proximity of cats to non-domestication, their continued sense of measure and practice in pursuit of prey that no longer exists in the excited prey-driven dog bounding loudly after a squirrel in the park.

I see sentiments sometimes in the nonhuman community to the effect of wondering or lamenting how wild or captive animals, especially our theriotypes/kintypes, relate to us if we ever encounter them. But what I think about a lot is how my journey as a nonhuman informs how I relate to animals.

I kind of see myself in a permanent state of questioning - while I don't find the back and forth about what "makes" me believe I'm a coyote or a puma or some kind of bird thing terribly interesting, I tend towards more mundane psychological explanations, which leads me towards thinking of putting a specific species on what I experience as less an exercise in uncovering the One Truth and more an exercise in narrowing down many equally viable possibilities towards one that just feels the most right. This means that for most of my life (I've known I was nonhuman since my early teens, first starting lurking in therian spaces in the Livejournal days) anytime I've looked at a new animal there's been a little checklist I go through in my brain about it, comparing it to my internal experience, and wondering about ITS internal experience.

This has led me down a lot of interesting rabbit holes. What does it actually feel like to have eyes on the side of your head, or to have a beak or gills, or to have a bird-like respiratory system? Am I equipped to know that or do I just take it on faith when those things do or don't feel like my internal experience? I know I'm some broad-winged soaring bird because when the wind passes through my fingers just so I feel like I could tip my pinky and gently turn through the air while barely having to move another muscle. But what does it feel like for a whale to be so encased in blubber that an arctic sea that would pretty much instantly kill me feels just right? Does meat smell different to a canine nose than to mine? How would I manage my breathing if I went for my morning run on four legs instead of two? Does a manta ray feel curiosity or surprise when it encounters a human diver? Do crows tell each other about their days when they go back to roost for the night?