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gooyote.bsky.social
Stupid Dog!
@gooyote.bsky.social
220 followers 2.2K following 0 posts
scrangly coyote and big dumb werewolf
it/it's, 20+
not a single braincell in this skull

NSFW stuff somewhere probably
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wolf.moda
huuuruugughh leave me alone ...... um in my straw....
wolf asleep in a crate filled with straw
July 17, 2025 at 9:11 PM
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dykelycan.bsky.social
WOLF TOOLS

ca.news.yahoo.com/b-c-wolves-l...
B.C. wolves use line to pull up crab traps in first possible tool use by species
Researchers have captured video footage of wild wolves in British Columbia pulling crab traps out of the sea by their lines to eat the bait inside, in the first evidence of possible tool use by the an...
ca.news.yahoo.com
November 18, 2025 at 4:44 PM
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vhsdogs.bsky.social
BURN IT ALL
illustration of a wolf like canine with a spiked collar holding a burning torch in its mouth, it stands on a grass verge with a city backdrop and is surrounded by flames block text reads “BURN IT ALL” at the top of the page, and smaller text at the bottom reads “NO SYSTEM BUT THE ECOSYSTEM, PROTECT COMMUNITIES NOT COMPANIES”
November 13, 2025 at 9:50 AM
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radiovix.bsky.social
here
‘vulpes’
a very rough attempt of translating animal brain into parsable english
November 5, 2025 at 10:00 PM
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jimmybelvins.bsky.social
hi you should pet me
October 28, 2025 at 5:19 PM
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rabosaalforn.bsky.social
Can you feel them?
October 2, 2025 at 8:40 PM
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wolf.observer
william stafford
Coyote My left hind- foot steps in the track of my right fore- foot and my hind-right foot steps in the track of my fore-left foot and so on, for miles— Me paying no attention, while my nose rides along letting the full report, the whole blast of the countryside come along toward me on rollers of scent, and— I come home with a chicken or a rabbit and sit up singing all night with my friends. It’s baroque, my life, and I tell it on the mountain. I wouldn’t trade it for yours.
September 30, 2025 at 6:52 AM
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forestfright.art
No More Light #ffrightart
September 27, 2025 at 12:07 AM
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shimi.bsky.social
New zine: “Look Into My Eyes One Last Time”

A final love letter to the self I shed
A prayer for the creature. Becoming
A reckoning, a surrender. Homecoming

This is my deepest wish laid bare—needle, fur, breath, & mercy. Being held with a care I never found.

#AnimalHRT #Therianthropy #ShortStory
A hand-drawn black-and-white cover image in a sketchy ink style. At the top, large stenciled type reads: “LOOK INTO MY EYES ONE LAST TIME.” Below the title is a syringe and a small medicine vial labeled “LUPINEX – Therionyl – 5mL,” with a stylized eye logo on the label. The vial and syringe are crosshatched with vintage texture lines. Below the drawing, in handwritten script, is the phrase: “Homecoming, not vanishing” and the signature Shimi & Critter. [Art on Page] A detailed graphite drawing of a wolf’s eyes. One, the left is more formed than the right — indicating a near but not complete transition. The fur around them is dense and wispy, rendered in fine pencil lines that suggest softness and depth. The eyes are highly realistic and expressive, staring directly outward with intense, soulful focus. They seem alert but ancient—wide with instinct, watching as if waiting for something to begin. The drawing fades at the edges into blank white space, giving the eyes a floating, disembodied presence. Look into my eyes one last time Look into my eyes. Hold them close until you can see the last scrap of me — the part that counts thoughts in lists, that weighs choices against rules, that folds shame into tidy, human-shaped pockets. Watch it loosen. Watch the corners of doubt unhook themselves like small animals from a net and dart away. There is no melodrama here, no violent yanking; it slips. The human mind peels like old bark, and underneath, the thing that always was settles warm and terrible and simple. They give me the last injection in a room that smells faintly of cedar and lemon. No needles, no cold clinical lecture — only the careful hands of doctors, veterinarians and nurses who know which bones to cradle and which stories to leave untold. I breathe. I lost the ability to count days back. I let the bracing liquid be a gate, not an instruction manual. I do not want to name it; names are the thin net that caught me for years. The burn is a rumour. It goes through me sideways — a quiet rearrangement, like a convent bell that signals not death but a calling. My limbs answer first. They stop thinking of movement and begin to remember it: how to fold, to coil, to push. Tendons unlearn the polite phrasing of two-legged steps and curve toward the old, fourfold geometry of running. My hands tighten and flatten; the knuckles find a new logic. Fur prickles along my forearms as if a thousand small moths take flight together and settle again. Each hair is a note in a chord I’ve felt… no… known in my bones since childhood. Look again. See how the pupils widen, how the whites retreat like a shy moon. My last maps of metaphor — the maps that turned hunger into lists and longing into projects — dissolve. Where there had been a ledger of self, there is now only the immediate ledger of scent and sound and the earth’s exact tilt beneath my weight. I do not mourn the maps. I never used them as well as the human world predicted and as I pretended. Sound changes. Those little, trivial noises of the room condense into a chorus: the slow tick of breath in the person beside me, the whisper of fabric, the distant wet confluence of gutters. And underneath that: a low, patient life-frequency — root and soil and river. It is not music so much as an acknowledgment. I find I can hear the insect conversation inside the walls, the sap walking up the birch, the small, stupid heartbeat of a mouse two blocks away. There is an intimacy to it that is almost rude. Breath becomes work and worship at once. My ribcage narrows, then widens in ways I know but cannot name. Milk memories — a thing to shame into silence when human — rise like a tide: the cadence of suckling, the doctrinal simplicity of being called to feed and to protect. A swelling around my belly that is not fat but purpose. I think of my children who never were, of the packs I have loved in mute pieces. The notion of motherhood is larger than gender; it is a compass with teeth. My children! You are my children and you are my all! My jaw shifts. I feel the slow, inevitable rearrangement — a socket loosens, a hinge finds its voice. A tooth erupts where an organised thought had lived. The smell of iron, rain-damp soil, and sleeping bodies that have waited for me — flooding my mouth like saliva. Tears come and I do not know if they are human or creature; they taste of salt and release. There is a tenderness in my own trembling that I have never allowed before. Outside the window, someone whose scent I knew laughs and it sounds to me like a distant bell. The handlers murmur: careful, gentle, let her and her pack decide. My mouth forms the shape and bark of guttural assent I could not voice when I was wholly human. Somewhere a crate opens as if the world is taking a breath with me. They will test me further, yes. They will see whether my newness walks toward the wild or clings to the small, safe hands of fosterers who will teach me boundaries, how to pass in a world of paved things. I do not fear them. I am no longer wrapped in that ledger — of consent, of cost, of consequence. I am wrapped in appetite and mercy. The choice, if there is one, feels less like an argument and more like a direction: toward den or home, toward the kill lovingly taken or the bowl lovingly given. Look once more. There is no human drama in my eyes now — only depth, like a riverbed where stones remember every footstep. The last scrap of thought, the tiny librarian of my life who loved lists, things and order, exhales and steps back through the doorway we are leaving open. I feel it go, and where it is gone there is fullness, a pulse that answers the creature’s call without translation. This is not a loss. It is not my obliteration. It is the solving of a long, clenched equation. I am not lessened. I am finally the shape I have been learning. Look into my eyes, one last time. I am awakening. — Shimi & Critter @shimi.bsky.social
September 26, 2025 at 1:47 AM
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kaimti.me
being an animal is everything
August 30, 2025 at 6:01 AM
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shimi.bsky.social
Hey There Little One
hey there. little one. i’ve been trailing your scent through the wasteland for days. don’t run. i’m not here to hurt you. i’m here to tell you—you’re not wrong. all your life you’ve twitched at shadows, felt eyes where there were none, ached like something was missing just under your skin. they called it dreaming. they called it madness. but i’ve seen it. i’ve seen you. and you’re real. not some soft mistake. not a too-bright child who never learned to settle. you are claws. you are hunger. you are song written in wet leaves and dirt. you are what came before language. don’t you remember? when you used to listen with your whole body? when you could read the sky like scripture? when sleep came only after circling down, nose to tail, heart to moss? you used to know these things. before they taught you to be still. before they filed your teeth and stuffed your mouth with plastic. before the quiet got so loud you forgot how to feel. but i didn’t forget you. and you didn’t lose it. it’s all still inside— the instinct, the kin-sense, the aching need to run without name or reason. the snarl that isn’t anger but love with no words. you’ve tried to play nice. tried to keep your head down, your tail tucked. but i see you. i see what’s under the mask. the beast that paces. the soft creature still watching the trees for a signal. for a friend. for a way home. listen. this world isn’t safe. but it was never meant to be. we weren’t made for steel boxes and lonely kitchens. we were meant for packs. for muddy paws and rib-warmth and eyes that say i know you. i don’t promise ease. but i promise this: you are not alone. you were never alone. so rise. panting, blinking, wild with grief— but rise. and when the night presses in, don’t whisper. howl. howl into the void until something howls back. and then run to it. run to the ones who remember. run like your name depends on it. because it does. i’ve waited so long. we all have come back. come through. come home. — Shimi & Critter
July 8, 2025 at 12:24 AM
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wifewolf.bsky.social
I think it's time I start working on that zine idea of an anarchist retelling of Ragnarok, of the myths leading up to it from the lens of the destruction of patriarchal and racist structures.🧵
July 1, 2025 at 4:38 AM
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shimi.bsky.social
I felt moved last night to make something… a Therian artefact… a poster? Manifesto? Handout? Flyer?

Whatevs. Its done. I’ll stick a few up over town.
A B&W poster” “WE WEREN’T BORN AS THEY SAID,” with poetic text about creaturely identity, defiance of naming systems, & embracing transformation. The design is chaotic & natural, with pencil-style animal drawings in each corner: a wolf (top left), a raven (top right), a rabbit (bottom left), & a cat (bottom right). Each is sketched with textured lines We didn’t begin in the clean white glare of their charts. We arrived—yowling-growling-baying-howling, cawing, snarling—our half-formed, paws still muddy from an older place. And they named us? No. They trapped us. In idea, in syllables that smelled of linoleum & sharp metal. They called us boy-girl he-she—as if they could ever know what had birthed in that room. But we're not names. we're poetry & motion. we're shedding. we're becoming again & again, slick with moulting skin & seasons that do not obey clocks. They cannot pin us to the wall like a dead moth & call it truth. We don’t owe our shapes to the ones who tried to bind them. We don’t owe our hearts to a category. We do not remember being born, so why should we carry the weight of that first cage? Let the forest remember us instead. Let our tracks in the dirt, our fur in the bramble, our voice in the long night be our real record. If we were once mistaken for something we're not—then so be it. we're not sacred because of what we were called. we're sacred because of what we're now. Breathing. Shifting. Choosing. Alive. Still reading this? Dearest creature: Are you eating enough? Are you sleeping with your back pressed to one who knows your scent, your musk? Are you helping your packs find water, safety, moonlight? Do not forget your teeth are not just for defence. They are also for grooming. For play. For love, for cracking open new things. Exploring your world. Be not defined nor categorised by those who tried to clip your wings or dull your teeth & claws. Define thyself by your every sacred heartbeat & keep going. Even when they wish us dead & gone.
June 18, 2025 at 5:25 AM
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coyoteprince.bsky.social
Something I didn't think possible
October 17, 2024 at 7:55 PM
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cadmiumtea.bsky.social
“When the Stars were Higher”
Brought on by a friend talking about missing the stars at night after moving to the city.
9x12, sold.
#art
November 2, 2023 at 5:33 PM
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radiovix.bsky.social
oops
May 19, 2025 at 5:54 PM
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creatureindex.bsky.social
Playmates
May 10, 2025 at 7:15 PM
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mygooddogsable.bsky.social
May 14, 2025 at 2:33 PM
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radiovix.bsky.social
a white, orange, and black poster promoting ‘species transitioning’ that reads “FEELING LIKE SOMETHING IS MISSING?/LOOKING FOR A CHANGE?/FEELING TRAPPED?/HOPING TO ESCAPE?/WANTING OUT?” Below, there are silhouettes of three foxes walking, with shadows that include the words “DON’T WAIT” Below is more text: “SPECIES TRANSITION IS AN OPTION CONSULT YOUR DOCTOR FOR MORE INFORMATION ON HUMANITY REPLACEMENT/REMOVAL THERAPY TO SEE IF THIS IS THE CORRECT PATH FOR YOU. DO NOTE THAT THIS IS AN EXPERIMENTAL PROCEDURE THAT MAY CAUSE SEVERAL UNPLEASANT SIDE EFFECTS AND MAY NOT BE SUITABLE FOR THOSE WITH CERTAIN CONDITIONS. SPECIES TRANSITION IS PERMANENT AND FULLY IRREVERSIBLE AND SHOULD ONLY EVER BE PURSUED WITH FULL CONFIDENCE” At the bottom of the page, the number “555-0184” is present. At the top of the page lies a small white rectangle: “555-0184” “ΘΔ” The background is primarily white, and splits into orange on the horizon line.
May 7, 2025 at 4:10 PM
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wolf.moda
laika
painting of a coyote from a side profile with red streaks on its muzzle in a field of tan and red brushstrokes
May 6, 2025 at 2:02 AM
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wolf.moda
analog mess
a CRT screen with analog text "I will make this body my own" over a VHS still frame of the Nonhuman Unity Flag
April 29, 2025 at 7:56 PM
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gug.bsky.social
Took some time at the craft fair to draw in my sketchbook.
April 26, 2025 at 9:39 PM
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ovrcffntedprnoia.bsky.social
One of my faves from the past few years, originally paint on canvas (this is a photo of a print)
#othrkin #therian #alterhuman #creauture #wolf
wolf monster snarls upward, mouth open, and with a forked tongue. vibrating lines all around
February 4, 2025 at 11:44 PM
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jolynegcoyote.bsky.social
Im in this business now, apparently

Edit by a friend
April 21, 2025 at 11:57 PM
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lockheedskunk.bsky.social
Another yote doodle! Playing around with some markers again!
February 22, 2025 at 11:04 AM