(Part 2)

The Human burst in the apartment. Toast couldn’t help herself, and fell into the routine of frantic joy, barley stopping herself from bowling him over.

The Human fell right in line. “Oh, hi Toast! I’m ho-ome! Did you miss me? Did you miss me girl?”

Mittens rolled his eyes. The Human—Darren—was doing that absolutely pathetic thing where he changed his voice to muddle the syllables and vowels to make it sound like he was talking to an infant.

To his credit, nothing much had changed in his routine. He was giving Toast the absolute requisite amount of belly rubs and head kisses and ear scrunchies. So Mittens hopped down and cautiously wound his way through the legs.

Darren responded immediately—correctly.

“Aw, hey buddy. I missed you, too, Mittens.” Chinny scritches. Oh, yeah, that was it.

But then he stopped, and walked over to the counter with the axoltol. But he…beckoned to them, as well.

“Ok, guys. This is Enrique, he’s an axolotl. And he’s going to be living with us, now.”

Well, that certainly sounded inclusive to Mittens. But it wasn’t exhaustive of assurances.

Toast slumped again. Mittens let his tail flick and his ears twitch.

Darren paused. He looked confused. “Buddies, did you—did you think I was replacing you?”

Toast thumped down, letting out a small whine. Mittens stood up and walked away.

“Oh, babies!” Darren continued. “I could never replace you! You’re my buddies!”

He knelt down next to Toast, giving her more head scratches. Her tail begin to reluctantly wag.

Mittens didn’t believe for a minute this human knew what he wanted. But when Darren reached out to give him head pats, he resigned himself to accepting that the Human would at least let them stay for the foreseeable future. And maybe he could live with that. Maybe it wasn’t so bad.

Darren stood up, and took down the food containers. Mittens had been so preoccupied, he’d forgotten it was dinner. And if the Human remembered without being reminded every minute, maybe it really would be alright.

Darren paused as he encountered the open book. Then he made a joke. “Looks like someone was doing a little research on their new brother.” He grinned and rolled his eyes. Enrique put a hand on the glass.

Darren placed the dishes of food before them and continued about his own routine, muttering under his breath. “Ha! Reading. Must’ve left it open by accident.”

He would never know.

And that was incredible, really: to spend so much time with someone and never really know what they were thinking. But for now, all that Mittens could consider was dinner.

“…What is it?”

Mittens didn’t answer his rival’s question right away. If he’d let it be known that he didn’t know either, he would never live it down. So he coughed a little into his paw and tried to cover.

“Well, it’s—it’s clearly the Human’s new pet. Its frills indicate it as being a variety of flora, while the aquatic setting of its habitat indicate an amphibious nature.”

Toast was quiet for a moment. “So…what is it?”

Mittens rolled his eyes. Dogs. “It’s clearly a fish…plant, Toast.”

Toast’s eyes filled with stars. “Wow Mittens! You’re so smart! Sorry for asking again, you use so many big words and you’ve been so many places and you can get to the food on the counters! And—“

“Yes, yes, Toast,” Mittens interuppted, eager to avoid another self-deprecating monologue, “I’m well aware of my accomplishments. We have more to worry about, now. This…thing, whatever it is—“

“Fish-plant,” Toast supplied eagerly, missing his slip-up.

“…yes, fish-plant, is no innocent addition to our household. It is, rather, our competition.”

“Wait…human…got a new pet?” dismay filled Toast’s eyes. She was always so sensitive. Dogs. “Does…does that mean the Human doesn’t want us anymore? Will TOAST HAVE NO HOME? OR BACON BITS?” She was wailing now, sharp bursts of sound echoing through the small apartment. Ugh, such an abrupt escalation. And people called cats dramatic.

Mittens reached out a paw to cover Toast’s mouth and silence the ear-splitting barks. “Toast! Calm yourself!”

The command brought the cries down in volume to soft whimpers. The watery eyes still wobbled with tears, like something out of one of those foreign cartoons the Human watched when he was alone in bed.

Mittens sighed. How to fix this? In all honesty, Toast’s reaction wasn’t too far off base. Domesticated animals such as themselves lived and died by their owners’ hands. Finding one was easy enough at first—humans were desperate for affection, and had such a strange affinity for creatures they couldn’t truly communicate with. But humans also tired of things quickly. New puppies became burdens once the novelty wore off. Kittens became little demons. And more and more pets ended up abandoned or given away each year, most unwilling or unaccustomed to fending for themselves.

With such limited, mercurial resources, the battle between Dog and Cat had long been fought. Dogs favored a tactic of unconditional love and pathetic gazes and shivering outside in bad weather. It had worked, massively—especially for those that played well with children. But cats disliked begging. And so they had pulled bait-and-switch tactics, withholding affection from everyone but their owners, playing nice when things went wrong, finding the few humans foolish and insecure enough to put up with whatever pranks and indiscretions cats often pulled.

But there was only so much love to go around. Most humans only had a few pets—some strictly dogs or cats. Some none at all. And for those who lived in a veritable menagerie of other pets, it was no telling when the “money,” as humans called it, would run low enough that the giveaways would begin. Mittens shuddered. He recalled such things from when he had been a young kitten himself. Small, furry bundles ripped away from their mothers. Dogs bred for the purpose of having their children sold, cats kicked to the curb because of unexpected pregnancies, even birds got a bad deal these days.

And so, with this new contender in the apartment, Mittens would pull no punches. He would have no mercy. He could handle Toast for the next ten years or so, but this new fellow’s intrusion would. Not. Stand! He would protect this fragile paradise he had cultivated with his best big eyes and his softest head bumps. And he would never again be cast out like trash!

He leapt onto the counter (who cared—there was no human around to see it and he did it all night anyway). The tank that had loomed above them looked smaller now, its water clear but darkened with plants and those drab little stones along its bottom. Almost sad. But the milky shape in the water swam right up to the side, its face fixed in a pleasant, mild grin. A small hand touched the glass—so much like the Human’s. Was that why he’d gotten it? Because it was like him in ways Mittens and Toast weren’t? Mittens shook the insecurity out of himself. He needed intel.

He wandered around for less than a minute before he found a small paperback with a glossy yellow cover. It seemed to be some instruction manual, with an image of the…fish-plant on it. It read: “How To Care For Your Axolotl.”

Excited, he called down from the counter. “Toast! It’s called a—“ an Ax-oh-lot…el? “An—an AXOLOTL!”

Toast forgot the fear that had gripped her a second ago. Her excited energy drove her in circles, barking all the way: “Oh wow! An Axolotl! Axolotl! Axolotl! What’s he like? What are they? Are they fish or plants? Oh wow, an Axolotl!”

Mittens ignored the frantic display, knowing it would last for at least a minute no matter what he did. He flipped open the book in a chunk of pages and began to read. His Human dialect was rusty, but the words flowed easily.

An axolotl, it seemed, was an amphibian; a salamander native to the area round Lake Xochimilco in Mexico. They were known for their bright pink gills and pleasant faces. Apparently they were quite the fad.

He read the information again, to Toast.

She was quiet for a moment, considering. “A…fad. That’s that thing that only lasts for short time, right? That thing that lots of humans like? So…Human will get rid of it soon, right? Because it will tire him. And…and we can stay!”

Mittens considered. It was possible. But the Human had liked the same foreign cartoons since high school ten years ago. That seemed like a long time to like one thing.

“Maybe, maybe not, Toast. It says here the axolotl is rather easy to care for once properly housed and fed.” He added under his breath, “apparently quite friendly, too.”

Toast’s tail slumped. She sighed and hefted down onto the floor. “Then maybe we will be replaced. The Human is getting bored of us.”

Mittens had to confess to feeling depressed as well. Oh, he’d seen this film before. And he didn’t like the ending. He flopped down onto his stomach, and prepared to say goodbye to the sweetest gig he’d had in years. He felt…oddly sentimental about it. Something was filling him with warm feelings. And he felt like speaking.

“You know, Toast,” he began, “it’s been a hell of a ride. And I can’t say I like dogs all that much, but you were—“ he stopped, hearing the turning of keys in the door. Saved by the bell. The Traitor was home.

Die mad then. Fat people are worthy.

“But…you could’ve been anything.”

They stared at me, 4 sets of eyes widened with shock or squired in confusion. 4 sets of furrowed brows.

“I don’t want to be anything else.”

“Well, I just thought—“ said Kenzie.

Rob cut in “I mean we all have those days, and you have the opportunity—“

I cut them off with a raised hand. “You thought what? That’d I’d be insecure? That I dislike my body? That I’d jump on the chance to change it?”

I could feel their discomfort growing. No one wanted to actually say anything about someone’s body—not to their face, at least. My mother had taught me that.

Sighing, I plopped down on a stump and continued before they could try to shove their words back into their mouths. “You’re right.”

Melissa was the first to jump in. That was just the type of person she was: the Includer. Whether you wanted to or not, she’d give you disingenuous platitudes meant to make you feel like you less inadequate. I’d done it myself, back before I’d gotten too tired. “No, we didn’t mean—“

“You’re right!” I insisted. “I hate my body sometimes. Most times.”

There was a quiet in the air, like a sorrow at the sentiment—open admittance was always worse, because you couldn’t hide the meaning of the words, dance around the inconvenient truths…or make polite conversation. Maybe there was also a comforting finality, as if they thought I was ridding myself of a delusion of thinking I was more attractive than I was, and therefore worth something.

Another sigh.

“I don’t like my body. I can barely even tolerate it. And, to be honest, it’s always been like this. Since I was five, I’ve been self-conscious about my weight. Stressed over my common-colored hair and eyes, hated my moles and the furriness of my legs and I—“ I stopped. I wasn’t quite sure where to go after that, how to escalate from disclosing the biggest baggage on my shoulders. “I hate my body. But I think we all do a little.”

I looked around at my party, 4 other people I called friends because we met in a shitty apartment twice a month to play games and make jokes about movies we watched when we were younger. They all looked different. Zedd especially.

“We all hate how we look. We spend years of our lives wishing we could change. Putting our bodies through physical distress every day for the hope of slimming down or bulking up; cutting ourselves into pieces and sucking out and re-injecting to reconfigure what we consider a colossal failing of the genetic lottery. And if we ever get the chance, we take it. We become elves—“ I looked at Melissa, several inches taller, a little slimmer, chromatic eyes and pale blonde hair, glasses-free and unfreckled, curvier but not pudgier—“barbarians—“ I watched Rod, head ducked and eyes avoidant, about 100 pounds of pure muscle heavier and well over a foot taller than he’d been, the long hair he wasn’t brave enough to grow out in real life flowing free down his impossibly bulky back—“sorceresses—“ now to Kenzie, her dark, coily hair now loose curls brushed back with a headpiece, a red dress glued to her new curvy body like she was modelling a swimsuit—“and even those of us who fancy ourselves defiant, nonconformist, can’t bring ourselves to defy too much.”

I glanced at Zedd, who did look decidedly inhuman. He’d chosen a figure with curling horns, four purple eyes, and brick red skin, a forked tongue flicking out to lick his lips nervously. But still, there were a brand-new six pack, cut arms, and high cheekbones.

I stood up, a heaviness in my actions as I resigned myself to getting on with it.

“I could have chosen anything. I could have looked like anything. But I’m so fucking tired of hating myself. I’ve been doing it for 20 years. We ALL have.”

I gestured around at the group.

“We’ll never be EVERYONE’S version of sexy. That’s how beauty standards work. And some of us will never even get close.” I pointed to myself, 320 pounds, middling height, my split ends and few strands of prematurely grey hair, my hairy cheeks, sagging boobs, and double chin, dry hands and moles that dotted my arms and face.

“But who cares? Who fucking cares? I know we all do, but why? Why do we force ourselves to focus on how we look for a few moments rather than how we feel and act forever? I’m tired of people acting like your worth is determined by how they judge your size, your skin, your hair—I’m tired of guilting myself into running circles because people don’t value me for who I am. And if they’re not going to change, I’m going to make them. By loving myself so much the have no choice.”

I let that sink in, mostly so I could organize my thoughts.

“I could have been anyone. And as much as I want to, as much as I hate to pass this chance up, I have to. I have to do it now, to prove to myself that I value myself, every bit of it, flabby, saggy, boring, hairy, and old. Because if I don’t do it know, when will I ever? I get to go home after this is over and tell myself that I loved myself enough to love ALL of myself, and maybe that will be enough to start making me love myself for real. Now let’s tell Argamenous we’re ready and get this show on the road, okay?”

——————————

I stood up from the stump when the flaps of the changing tent moved. They stepped out, all four of them, different.

Kenzie was first, tight red dress clinging to her body—flat chested and proud, her hair twisted into braids and coiled on top of her head, a big beauty mark below her lip.

Rod followed, 5-foot-nothing and slim, wielding a hammer half his size because who gave a fuck when you had magic? His hair still flowed down his back, just short enough that he looked like battle-Rapunzel.

Zedd was next, rocking the horns and red face again, this time letting his leather vest hang open around his potbelly and sporting a bejeweled birthmark on his face.

And finally, Melissa, tying her hair behind her still-pointed ears, glasses framing her dark brown eyes and freckles tickling her nose and cheeks. She was wearing a dress that fit around her soft form in a way that would make an Instagram influencer recommend a two-week slimming green tea cleanse.

“We told Argamenous we were almost ready,” she said from beside me. “Are you ready?”

I smiled. “Yeah.”

We walked into the portal, framed in glowing gold light against the sunset. We’d never looked better.

YTA, my dude. Traditions are something entirely different than altering one’s biology. This is an incredibly personal, permanent decision on her part. This isn’t like substituting cottage cheese for ricotta in lasagne, this is a whole PROCESS. No one should have to change their body at their partner’s request. I remember my late spouse forcing The Change on me; nothing I regret more than staying in that relationship.

And given that you mentioned she JUST found out, I’m seeing a totally uncool pattern of miscommunication here. You two need to open things up. Talk about expectations, culture, feelings, etc. Give her lots of time to make a measured decision. Don’t make her be your Bella. And maybe she didn’t really grasp that she’d be spending an eternity with you. You could want different things out of life.

No tradition is worth someone’s bodily autonomy. And maybe I’m assuming that this relationship has sane and consensual foundations, but if you can’t respect her decision, maybe you’re better off leaving the wedding canceled.