Kernal
By Whitney Kimball
Smokey the Bear in a cheerleader outfit dances on a table; a pair of snow-white Grimm’s Fairy Tale wolves nuzzle noses, near a black dragon with motion-detecting video pupils. It’s “drag queens vs. furries” night at San Francisco’s maze-like DNA Lounge, but aside from a guy wearing a pompom wig, it’s a neon safari on hind legs.
I’m looking for a purple giraffe named Zarafa. Amid the Grimm’s Fairy Tale wolves nuzzling and about a dozen dogs, cats, foxes, and raccoons, Zarafa stands apart. He discovered the furry fandom at age 52 and now can’t imagine life without it. I thought he might be able to explain furriness, not as a niche subculture, but as an identity—one that for most of his life he’d never had a word for.
After a long and winding search through balconies, stages, bars, dance floors, and back, I finally spot him through the crowd. He extends a squeaky paw, leading me through winding bars and balconies to a quieter room. Contrary to his Kewpie doll eyes and sparkly blue mane, he’s sweaty and a little matted from partying. Walking behind a giraffe at a furry party feels like being Freddie Prinze Jr. in a teen movie: The seas part, dudes give him fist-bumps, girls grind on him and stop him for photos as a club version of “I Just Can’t Wait to be King” blasts out from the main stage and the whole place goes bonkers. On the dance floor, I’m literally jumping up and down, because looking at a big smiling Bambi-eyed giraffe with a sparkly blue mane has that sort of effect on you.
Yellow light-up cat eyes emerge out of the darkness, belonging to a cheetah whose paw is waiting for the drop. I’d heard of Spottacus’s beautifully tailored high-tech suits, but it’s impossible to appreciate until you see him move; unlike the standard mascot silhouettes, the thick, realistic Steiff-like fur fits like a second skin. He is magnificent. There’s even something a little sexy about watching a giraffe sidle up and lock hips with an antelope, and the suits, with their broad shoulders and big hands, add some physical heft.
The suits are hot, and furries need to surface for air. But just steps outside the club, the magic fades. Having been warned about excess hugging, I’m surprised to notice that the other furries are a little standoffish. Everybody’s been burned by the press at some point; Zarafa says Fox News once ran the word “FREAK” over a clip of his face, and everyone’s quick to insist that it’s not all about sex, even though I never bring it up.
On cue, a French guy in a leather jacket quietly asks me to explain what’s going on with the suits. I tell him to ask the furries standing in front of us. He refuses. I turn to a white cat in a plaid-skirted schoolgirl uniform, who explains that animal anthropomorphism is a part of who she is. “Yeah, but, you, like, woke up one day and decided this was a thing?” he asks.
The conversation trails off, and soon Spottacus is scrambling to save his tail from some vomit on the street: an occupational hazard. Soon Zarafa experiences one, too; he overheats and faints, sinking in slow motion to the concrete.
We have to break a furry rule: taking off his head.
“Quick!” the cat shouts, and five dogs are on it. The face underneath couldn’t be farther from a cartoon; it’s angular, etched with lived experience, grayish and more threadbare. He reminds me of my uncle or my dentist, but it’s hard to picture him as a “Bob” or “Jim.” …