FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

See Spot. See Spot run. Run, Spot, run-run along the weathered split rail fence that rolls up and down the verdant meadow in bloom with the seeding daffodils, their powder-soft seeds flying around your pumping legs and into your fur, out along the gust sending waves through the field, its current threatening to take you under in a sea of luscious green grass. Feel the heat of the sun in the edges of your eyes and in the alcoves of your flapping ears. Shine, sun, shine. Watch, Spot, watch the pinwheel in your paw shoot sparks of color; squint and blink when they catch your eye.

See the bliss in Spot's open-mouth grin. Hear the joy in every youthful squawk. Know, reader, know, that in his mind the world is right, and as he runs across this verdant field he feels the pulse of the earth's breast beat and believe, reader, believe, that he fully intends to suckle upon the teat of life and grow fat of its bounty.

Watch out, Spot; there's a rock on that hill! Spot narrowly dodges it by hopping on his other paw, but now he's over the hill and flying fast! You can't run if your feet aren't under you-roll, Spot! He catapults himself down into the valley, rolling into a little spotted ball and blasting a path through the flowers, throwing up grass like an angry lawn mower. He comes to a stop and he's so dizzy, head spinning like his pinwheel, which is now broken and makes Spot sad.

Something in the distance catches the puppy's attention, so he sticks the pinwheel into the grass next to a daffodil and stands up, still woozy from his tumble. In the center of this valley, no more than twenty feet away, is a large and perfectly round patch of dirt. It's healthy, brown dirt, and like the sun's rays is warm to the touch and is so soft. It squishes between his toes, moist to the touch, but there's not a single blade of grass here! There is one flower in the center of the circle, one flower which is as tall as Spot when he trips over his own feet.

Watch out, Spot! You're growing so fast; didn't you know that your feet would get longer as you got taller? Your mother's sure you'll outgrow the doorframe she uses to mark your height if you keep this up! I think that is her in the distance now; can't you hear her calling?

Spot, of course, is being a bad puppy and doesn't respond when his mother calls, and he's dragging his brand-new pants through the warm dirt crawling towards that flower! It's very quiet in this small valley, and even the trees aren't rustling their leaves right now-they stand still all around Spot and watch, watch him drag furrows in the field as he approaches his target. Might the trees know something about this flower?

The young Dalmatian sits down with a whump and he squeaks with his short, fat muzzle. One of his floppy ears lands on the top of his head flopped open. His nose vibrates with the scents emanating from the precious plant, and his eyes light up with all the energy and verve of youthful curiosity-his mind boggles and his heart races at something so startlingly new; this peculiar scent is invigorating, it's like is his mother's freshly baked cookies, or the smell of her perfume when she cradles him tight against her breast, the warmth of which is not unlike the dirt beneath him. Spot squaws loudly and with a large grin, rips the flower out of the ground and shoves it into his mouth, chewing loudly.

Stop that Spot, Stop! You don't know where that came from. Do you know if that flower will give you a tummy ache, the same way crab grass does? Mom doesn't want to be cleaning your carseat like the way she'll already have to wash your pants! What if you're allergic to the flower and get all puffed up? Mommy will have to roll you to school and you'll distract all the kids! You'll turn pink again and you'll look like a big fat spotted gumball.

Here comes his mother now, running also along the weathered split-rail fence as the sun glows on her sleek, spotted fur, whitening its white and blackening her black spots as her idyllic egg yolk dress flows around and between her legs, struggling to keep up with her supple stride.

"Spot!" she calls out, "Spot, where are you?" Her voice soars over the verdant meadow like a falcon from her throat, cast high and searching wide which she follows in the wake it cuts, and though the tendrils of advancing age tickle her heart and her thumping lungs, the pugnacious piss of youth catapults her into the valley below.

Down here the field is grand and sweeping, nature's arms spread wide with her sleeves falling to eternity and flowing with the pulse of her people, her flowers in bloom and her animals having bloomed-a lone mother runs across her bosom.

"Delia!" another of her subjects calls, "Delia, have you found him? I have to go to class soon!"

Mother Dalmatian pivots on her bare feet to squint to the crest, sun in her eyes and air through her teeth, her mouth open in a light pant.

When the otter owning this voice crests the hill, she tries to leap the same rock that Spot failed to scale and tumbles just the same, head over ruddy rudder tail until caught by Delia, who hoists her by her arm.

There is no wind past the crown of the hill; the trees about them hold their wiry branches still and their wiry branches hold their kite-like leaves still as if in reverence, or if they were made of wax. Delia's dress hangs from her hips like dry petals. The clouds do not roll; they are painted on the sky's wide ceiling until a patch should chip and a cloud come tumbling down onto this field which save for Spot, which Delia spots crawling in a blotch of dirt, moves very little. They are all waiting-even the dandelion, whose mad rush to fly and to reproduce is halted and its seeds hang on like the moss on the weathered split-rail that ended at the entrance of this gradual, effulgent valley.

The otter points parallel to Delia's nose, points at the small boy-her occasional ward-and Delia nods that yes, she's seen him too. This young college student, diligent in her work and the most caring of sitters, calls out to Spot again and dashes for him.

Spot, what did your mother tell you about eating things you don't know; what did your sitter tell you about running off where she can't watch you? You're making her late to class, which is just as bad as making mommy late to work! And now your tummy is sick. And don't bite at that itch! Use your paw.

Spot stumbles to his feet and from his small mouth comes a high-pitched caw as he clutches at his stomach, which clutches back. The puppy shivers, then grimaces, then barks at his arm and then gnaws at it, which like the rest of his body burns, which like the rest of his body feels an intangible pull of each strand of his fur. Spot growls as he gnaws at his arm, slobber dripping from his chin, then bites at his calf through his overalls when that itches more while his other foot, swathed in a small rubber sneaker, comes up and rubs behind his ear until the skin is raw.

"Spot!" shouts Marcie, his babysitter, a bright young college student, an otter with a boyfriend and a job at the local video store. "Spot, what did I tell you about scratching? What did you get into; is that poison ivy? What's wrong with you?"

Marcie picks Spot up who is still curled into a ball and scratching his ear with his foot. She stops it with her strong paw and pulls it down to the other one, dangling him by his overall straps as he wiggles and writhes feet off the ground, squealing like an angry pig. To this the otter giggles and hugs Spot tight to her chest, and for a moment the puppy is pacified and his breathing evens.

"Marcie," his mother asks as she closes the few remaining yards between them, "is Spot acting up again? Do you think he's hungry?"

"I don't know what he is, ma'am," she responds, "something's really gotten to him. Worst temper tantrum I've seen out of the tyke; you think it's allergies? How is he on his shots?"

Delia shrugs as she pets the boy, who in response growls at her touch and growls louder when she removes her paw. This causes a fair amount of trepidation in Mother Dalmatian, anxiety rests in the back of her head like the beginning of a sneeze. She kneads her paw with the other one, squeezing the pad under her thumb and squeezing her thumb with her curling digits-her molars knead her tongue as she ponders through a dense fog.

"They're always prescheduled; I get two phone calls before each shot, that receptionist goes to the same ladyvet as I, I...I have no idea what's going on with the scamp."

After arguing the possibilities for so long and conceding to simple ignorance, Delia reaches out again to stroke her little child, to squeeze his ear, perhaps to lean in and plant her healing lips upon his crown, but this is not what happens. His ear is hot to the touch as is his temper, and his growls become snarls only barely muffled by the otter's body. Marcie begins to doubt her hold on him and repositions him, her nose twitching.

"He needs a doctor," she says, "and a change. I'm sure the professor's going to understand if I miss."

Delia doesn't object; she is in her own mind and calculating, watching the text and the hammers of a thousand typewriters of a thousand monkeys writing thousands of possible futures.

"That's fine," she says, "that's perfectly fine."

They walk side by side, Delia keeps herself close, and even though the sun shines brightly enough to sear the spots on her coat, her body will not accept this ambrosial gift because she will not accept this enigmatic malady that consumes her boy. The wind picks up again as they crest that first hill, but the wind and all of its playfulness can wait; tug as it may at its subject's egg yolk dress and whisper as it wants in its lady's ear. The sun and its loving can wait; it can pour over her shoulders and down her back and it can seep below her skin to nuzzle her muscles and this does sound wonderful to her, but it must wait. Her eyes dart from Spot to the distant speck that is her car and back; his body heaves with each breath and most of them are snarls.

Marcie keeps her back arched and keeps her steps even; the slightest jostle enrages the boy. She wants to ask for Delia to take her boy, but she won't. She is a babysitter, a college student, and a girl at the local video store with a boyfriend-she is a hard worker and makes her bosses and professors proud. Once she gets to her boss's van, she will make her proud again by taking care of him all by herself.

Delia wants to ask to take her boy, but won't. She is scared and she doesn't know why, which also scares her. She watches Marcie lay her pup down in the back of the van, and the change in angle frustrates the boy. Spot turns his heavy head left and right, ears flopping against the grey carpet, and then starts kicking frantically to turn over. He snarls the whole time.

Marcie grabs him by the arms and suddenly, Spot bites her!

"Ow!" Marcie cries, yanking her paw back. She can't believe he did that!

"Spot!" his mother shouts, jabbing a finger at her son, "that's a very bad dog; you shouldn't bite people! No!" she says, "No!"

Spot snaps at her, glaring at her. He doesn't make eye contact, but looks at her as a single entity, like a toy he wants or his bottle when thirsty. She's seen the look.

"I have no idea what he's got into," Marcie says, "but if it's any consolation, I've dealt with worse. Trust me."

"Like a drop in a large bucket," Delia responds with a weak chuckle, watching her sitter carefully tend to Spot. The slightest jostle seemed to anger him, rebuking him would outright enrage him. She manages his overalls with the skill of a safecracker, pulling the diaper bag near as she says with a smile,

"Alright, you squirmy little monkey, what surprise do you have for me this time?" The sitter shares a chuckle with her bereaved boss as she opens the infant's soiled diaper and pulls his legs up to remove it, which makes Spot squeal like an enraged piggy. Marcie barely holds his ankles in her paw, and quickly yanks the messy garment out from under him.

"Blood, Marcie," Delia points out, and the otter sighs as she reaches for a wipe.

"You poor baby," she says to him, "We'll getcha all fixed up, don't you worry."

Marcie reaches down to wipe him and suddenly Spot lurches forward and bites her wrist, then bites it again, then bites her paw! Startled, the otter squeaks, recoiling as she massages her arm. Mother Dalmatian is quick with a new wipe and presses it against Marcie's wrist.

"He drew blood, that's for sure, ma'am," the otter says, "but I'll be fine; I've had much worse. How far on my bad list you wanna go, eh?" she asks Spot, who glares back at her with a permanent growl on his face.

"Spot, I can't believe you," his mother sighs, "we are taking you right to the doctor, just let me finish changing you."

The puppy still snarls at her and still glares at her, but does not squirm. Delia doesn't bother replacing his overalls, and holds him close to herself as she walks around to the side of the van, opening the sliding door with a free paw. His heartbeat is feverish, his forehead is hot, and he shivers with increasing intensity.

"My poor baby," she sighs as she pushes the buckle of his carseat aside, leaning over it to set him down. He growls as he leaves her chest, pawing at her as she sets him down and slides the belts over his head. Buckled in, he never closes his mouth, and the rise and fall of his plump tummy quickens as his mother slides into the front. A deep sadness falls over him, he reaches for the back of her head and struggles against his restraints; push, Spot, push! But she is never closer. She sits, facing forward, pushing buttons on the van's dash as his sitter slides into the other front seat.

"I guess you want me to drive?" Marcie asks, taking the keys from her boss.

"I want to watch him," Delia says, chewing her tongue, "he's got serious separation issues right now."

Before she can buckle herself in, her son lets out a scream that makes both of them jump from their seats. Quickly, his mother reaches back and strokes his head, which calms him immediately and turns his screaming into incoherent burbling. He paws his mother's arm as she rubs his ears, drooling as his tongue flops haphazardly around his mouth.

Delia and Marcie stare at each other, completely dumbfounded as she caresses a seemingly pacified pup. But at one point, Spot pulls too hard on some of his mother's fur and she retracts her arm with a slight "Ow!" and that sets him off even worse, his screaming louder, continuous, and his body thrashing like a beached fish. He bites furiously at his straps, his teeth dragging along the belts and fraying the fabric, and he screams as he bites. Spot bites his own tongue and screams louder, and as Delia feverishly strokes his head, he only slowly calms down, his sighs of relief interrupted frequently by screams of fury. He does, however, calm down, and Delia moves from the front seat to sit alongside him, her nose and lips resting on his crown which is molten to the touch. For now, he is pacified and carefully, Mother Dalmatian pulls a loose fang out of the carseat strap.

"Just drive," she whispers to Marcie, "As quickly...and smoothly...as you can."