![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
juushikaAfter living without a feline companion for ten years, I'm currently living with two house cats. Madison is a shy, small, independent female; Dude is a bold, friendly, large male. I am a shy, cuddly, small house cat. I am also an adult human female. And for the first time since labeling and actively exploring my therianthropy, I am living among my theriotype.
Not many therians are able to spend extended amounts of time with their theriotype, because it's difficult—for geographic and safety reasons—for a wolf in a human body to spend time among wolves, for a leopard-human to hang out with big cats, and other equivalents. Domestic therians have an unusual opportunity, because our theriotypes are more accessible and some of them even live in our homes. We may have the chance to interact and live among them, as I have while living among cats.
Spending considerable time with one's theriotype has both benefits and drawbacks. Here I have to draw inward and become specific: I only have one theriotype, and I can't speak to anyone else's experiences. A housecat in a human body living among a housecats is peaceful melancholy—at least, it is for me. Primarily, watching the cats is self-validation. Madison disappears daily her own private hidden spot and doesn't emerge until evening. When active, she's just as likely to meow at closed doorways as she is to run away from humans—she is demanding but asocial. Dude is a wholly different creature: he functions by his whims, napping often, insisting on cuddle time, or succumbing to a half hour of intensive evening crazies. He is loving and very social, but selfish without apology.
That, and more: They vocalize for attention, and to warn against it. They curl up and sprawl out and sit sphinx-like, watching and resting and sleeping throughout most of the day. Their evening crazies have them prowling and playing in frantic action until they come to a sudden stop half an hour later. Their routines and wants are subject to change at whim. They cuddle and kneed and purr. They are cats—in all those inexpressible ways.
There's a popular image of cats as mysterious, aloof, independent—and I am none of those things. Dude and Madison are not stereotypes either. They're mysterious but simple, aloof but social, independent but kitten-like, and a million things besides. Their unique personalities reminds me that every cat is an individual—and that the fact that I don't comply to the popular image of the domestic feline does not mean that I'm not a house cat. I watch them, I see parts of myself in them, and I know, with certainty: I am a domestic cat. So, though my identity may be displaced, though I may not know my breed or the color of my coat, I have the comfort of knowing who I am.
It is also a comfort to interact with the cats. I don't have fur, but I can touch theirs. I can't purr, but I can feel their rumbles against my chest. I don't have claws, or a body small enough to lay in a lap, or a food bowl, but they do—and by interacting with the cats, I can experience their lives, vicariously. I can provide for them all the comfort, entertainment, and provisions of the domestic feline life that I wish I had.
But with that joy comes melancholy. The vicarious joy of Madison's long whiskers or Dude's purr is not the same as having either myself. I cannot pull on their furs and assume a feline body. Every interaction with the cats is a reminder of what I cannot have. I identify as a cat, but I cannot be a cat in body—nor can I interact with them on that level. Meows are a form of interspecies communication, cats outside of kittenhood don't depend on other cats to refill the food dish, and no matter how well we get on, the cats simply don't see me as another cat. They are a joy and a comfort, they are also a constant reminder that no matter my spirit, my body is human.
I appreciate some of the comforts and freedoms and intelligent pursuits allowed me by the body I inhabit. But I don't believe I am in this body for a reason, and it pains me that I can't leave it for the one I think should be mine. In many ways, though my situation may be unusual my feelings are fairly common among therians—but here they are anyway. I believe I'm lucky that I can live among my theriotype, draw comfort from them, and reassure myself of my identity. Madison and Dude are wonderful cats, and I'm never so sure of who I am as when I watch them sleep, or pad down the hallway, or meow for food, or kneed a blanket. But it hurts me, too, to watch them and interact with them and not be one of them the way that I should be. I am so close, but still so far. It's bittersweet, a mixed blessing, but I'd not change it for the world.
Crossposted here to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
therianthoughts.
Not many therians are able to spend extended amounts of time with their theriotype, because it's difficult—for geographic and safety reasons—for a wolf in a human body to spend time among wolves, for a leopard-human to hang out with big cats, and other equivalents. Domestic therians have an unusual opportunity, because our theriotypes are more accessible and some of them even live in our homes. We may have the chance to interact and live among them, as I have while living among cats.
Spending considerable time with one's theriotype has both benefits and drawbacks. Here I have to draw inward and become specific: I only have one theriotype, and I can't speak to anyone else's experiences. A housecat in a human body living among a housecats is peaceful melancholy—at least, it is for me. Primarily, watching the cats is self-validation. Madison disappears daily her own private hidden spot and doesn't emerge until evening. When active, she's just as likely to meow at closed doorways as she is to run away from humans—she is demanding but asocial. Dude is a wholly different creature: he functions by his whims, napping often, insisting on cuddle time, or succumbing to a half hour of intensive evening crazies. He is loving and very social, but selfish without apology.
That, and more: They vocalize for attention, and to warn against it. They curl up and sprawl out and sit sphinx-like, watching and resting and sleeping throughout most of the day. Their evening crazies have them prowling and playing in frantic action until they come to a sudden stop half an hour later. Their routines and wants are subject to change at whim. They cuddle and kneed and purr. They are cats—in all those inexpressible ways.
There's a popular image of cats as mysterious, aloof, independent—and I am none of those things. Dude and Madison are not stereotypes either. They're mysterious but simple, aloof but social, independent but kitten-like, and a million things besides. Their unique personalities reminds me that every cat is an individual—and that the fact that I don't comply to the popular image of the domestic feline does not mean that I'm not a house cat. I watch them, I see parts of myself in them, and I know, with certainty: I am a domestic cat. So, though my identity may be displaced, though I may not know my breed or the color of my coat, I have the comfort of knowing who I am.
It is also a comfort to interact with the cats. I don't have fur, but I can touch theirs. I can't purr, but I can feel their rumbles against my chest. I don't have claws, or a body small enough to lay in a lap, or a food bowl, but they do—and by interacting with the cats, I can experience their lives, vicariously. I can provide for them all the comfort, entertainment, and provisions of the domestic feline life that I wish I had.
But with that joy comes melancholy. The vicarious joy of Madison's long whiskers or Dude's purr is not the same as having either myself. I cannot pull on their furs and assume a feline body. Every interaction with the cats is a reminder of what I cannot have. I identify as a cat, but I cannot be a cat in body—nor can I interact with them on that level. Meows are a form of interspecies communication, cats outside of kittenhood don't depend on other cats to refill the food dish, and no matter how well we get on, the cats simply don't see me as another cat. They are a joy and a comfort, they are also a constant reminder that no matter my spirit, my body is human.
I appreciate some of the comforts and freedoms and intelligent pursuits allowed me by the body I inhabit. But I don't believe I am in this body for a reason, and it pains me that I can't leave it for the one I think should be mine. In many ways, though my situation may be unusual my feelings are fairly common among therians—but here they are anyway. I believe I'm lucky that I can live among my theriotype, draw comfort from them, and reassure myself of my identity. Madison and Dude are wonderful cats, and I'm never so sure of who I am as when I watch them sleep, or pad down the hallway, or meow for food, or kneed a blanket. But it hurts me, too, to watch them and interact with them and not be one of them the way that I should be. I am so close, but still so far. It's bittersweet, a mixed blessing, but I'd not change it for the world.
Crossposted here to
therianthoughts.
