A lump of meat, old and rubbery. A necklace of MoFo teeth fell out. A tattered notebook. A makeshift ax. Dee pointed at a mound of black twigs.
“Astee!” She gestured violently at the twigs.
Not twigs but severed crow feet. Black beaks scattered in between. Dee’s face wrinkled into snarls. The notebook was littered with the ramblings of a madman. But the last page made my beak hairs stand on end.
the monsters above the bunker are dead. something killed them in the night. left the bunker. strange migrations happening animals birds all following something. tracked a sky full of crows and saw A creature like a girl but not. crows all around it. Must be a ghost. Cannot be real, children in the bunker are long dead. everyone is dead. Hunting the ghost girl. killing crows to lure her. will capture the ghost girl
I took it all in. The squirrels looked utterly disappointed. And I used my MoFo mind to make deductions, remembering that squirrels have only one thing on their filthy minds. The squirrels had been waiting for a show. The squirrels were a clear, Windex-ed window into this MoFo’s dark intentions.
I squinted into the branches and saw our owls. Kuupa, Wik, Ookpik, Bristle, and The Hook had seen it all with citrine eyes. They’d seen this play out before it happened. They trusted Dee could handle it.
This is how it is done in the animal kingdom, a necessity to survive. Dee lived by the quiet storm of senses inside her. She’d seen what he was underneath his camouflage before I had—an animal. Oh, the pelts we wear. Dee had never needed Big Jim’s hands to protect her. The female of the species is more deadly than the male.
Eyes up at Dee, who waited for my response. I gave a head bob. Relief escaped her through a soft sigh.
I had been wrong to call Dee a flower. Dee was not a flower; she was a fucking weed. Beautiful and tenacious as a tiger. Misunderstood and mislabeled. Spiny and spiraling unapologetically toward life. Flowers live in short, delicate bursts, but Dee had thorns and tangled roots and would fight for every chance at a life. Blackberry bush’s darling pride. My, my, what a beautiful and deadly thing she was growing into.
She picked me up and nuzzled my beak, feeling the hollow ache and terrible longing of my disappointment.
“Gisi,” she said, gesturing in the direction of Migisi’s sky mansion. The sun started to sink in a bright burst of sherbet-pink tatters. I took a deep breath. We’d get to savor another sunrise, the light hours offering up a whole banquet of possibility and adventure. A future.
There were three eaglets waiting for us. Our brave crows. A parliament of owls. A cantankerous cassowary. An aurora of protective polar bears. A lake-eyed musk ox who’d scoured the tundra and the taiga for Dee, finally following the wisdom of bees. Three tigers who craved the comfort of Dee’s warm, biscuity smell. Family doesn’t have to look like you; they can have feathers and scales and scutes. What matters is that you’re loved for who you are in your heart. We survive when we are seen.
The deep rasp of a tiger claiming his territory revved into a chorus of fierce music.
All the world’s a stage. The show must go on.
The big beautiful blue is filled with secrets and hidden lives waiting to be discovered. Far, far away, shivers of hammerheads gathered in a swirling sea, grasshopper mice howled at dark desert moons, horned tahrs tackled the stoic face of a Himalayan mountain, sloths sustained a kingdom of algae in the digestive system of a rainforest. Wild creatures, all fighting for a sunrise.
What a wonderful world.
And who knows what or who else was out there? Something dawned on me right then—why we hadn’t seen a trace of The Changed Ones since the oxen had driven them away.
Dee shared my thoughts. She pointed at the horizon and then at herself.
“MoFo, Astee,” she said, her eyes meeting mine. “Like Dee. Danger.” She pointed at the horizon again. Could it be that The Changed Ones had been driven away by Dee’s allies, but they had stayed away because they were hunting? Because there was another out there. Another like Dee.
I thought of all the creatures I’d met since I left my little Ravenna nest. They were all worth fighting for. Dee and I would no longer hide or live in fear. We would no longer stand by as an abominable horde destroyed our big beautiful blue. Our purpose landed in front of me, not delicately like the alighting of a Eurasian wren, but rather like a wasp crash-landing upon an eyeball. We had to eradicate the monsters that were ravaging our home.
Dee and I shared a sly look. Yes, we felt the big beautiful blue calling for us.
Maybe I’d get to see some of the wonders of the world after all.
Winner winner chicken dinner.
Dee strode like something nature had dreamed up in bold brushstrokes. Fruit of the imagination, plucked from a star-kissed sky. She was an evolutionary masterpiece, the little seed that could, eternity’s sunrise, forever perched in my soul. She claimed each footfall, as confident as the earth that held her.
And I hopped along after her. Just a little thing with feathers.
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Reading Group Guide
The author gives each character of the novel a perspective, storyline, and sense of humor. After immersing yourself in the world of Feral Creatures, do you look at animals and the environment differently? Have the personalities of your domestic pets taken on new meaning? Do you feel more sympathetic to the plights of exotic animals around the world?
In chapter 1, S.T. marvels at how humans “dragged their beautiful fingernails across the landscape,” leaving noticeable, far-reaching trails. How has human expansion negatively impacted the natural world? Has it had a positive impact?
Some of the animals in the novel, like S.T., believe humans are inherently good. Others, however, like the polar bear, refer to Dee as a “skinner cub” and a “monster.” How do the negative reactions to Dee’s existence reflect prejudices commonly found in the human world? Why does S.T. believe Dee deserves protection?
Discuss the use of footnotes in the novel. How did they help illustrate S.T.’s limited knowledge of the world? How did S.T.’s TV education help and hinder his ability to parent Dee—and understand the human condition?
In the novel, S.T. says the time of “healthy MoFos” was characterized by a “chorus of cars.” Recently, however, COVID-19 confined many people to their homes, reducing pollution and leaving room for animals to re-explore human spaces. How did these events tie into American writer Carol Emshwiller’s idea that “perhaps being human needs some diluting”?
S.T. describes himself as a kind of single parent to Dee, and in chapter 2 meditates on how relentlessly difficult it is to raise a child. How does the author expand on the idea that “it takes a village to raise a child” in Feral Creatures?
Emily Dickinson’s famous poem, “‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers,” is referenced in chapter 2. In the poem, Dickinson represents “hope” as a bird—a bird that, ever-present in the human soul, is capable of overcoming hardship and pain. How does the character of S.T., literally and figuratively, embody this idea?
Dee, despite being raised by animals, is viewed as an “alien presence” by animals who aren’t familiar with her, which often makes her feel lonely and misunderstood. How does Dee process this sense of otherness in the novel, and how does her existence eventually redefine what it means to belong?
Dee, more than once, is a danger to the animals around her. S.T. suggests that “destruction is in the marrow of a MoFo,” and that Dee, despite her best intentions, has the potential to be violent, as she was “born of the most violent beings on earth.” Do you believe it is human nature to gravitate toward violence? In your opinion, are human beings inherently good or evil?
At the end of Feral Creatures, Dee does commit an act of violence. How did this scene make you feel? Did Dee’s actions surprise you? Why or why not? Do you believe intention matters wh
en it comes to behavior, or that “ends justify means”?
Which environment and animal did you most connect with as a reader? Why?
At one point in the novel, S.T. becomes frustrated with Dee: “I was trying to raise a MoFo, not a cub, not a pup, not a kit. Why couldn’t she try harder to be who she was supposed to be?” Did you feel S.T.’s expectations of Dee in this moment were fair? What brings about S.T.’s eventual acceptance of Dee’s unique place in the world?
In the novel, the Changed Ones take on the disfigured appearances of animals. Some are like spiders; some are like birds; others are like wasps. What are the implications of this kind of transmogrification? Do you think people’s individual personalities influenced their transformations?
Near the end of the novel, a friend of S.T. makes this realization: “Like S.T., [Dee] straddles worlds. They were hybrid together. They were part of each other.” How do S.T. and Dee “straddle worlds”? In what other ways do Dee and S.T. complement one another?
Acknowledgments
To my agent, the one and only Bill Clegg, who continues to astound and inspire me with his literary intuition and graceful guidance. Thank you for making me a better writer and for not batting an eye when I brought a real live talking crow to your house.
Thank you to my Clegg Agency family, especially Lilly Sandberg, David Kambhu, and Simon Toop for their cunning corvid minds, and to Marion Duvert for helping S.T. to fly farther than he ever could have dreamed.
My immeasurable gratitude to my Grand Central Publishing family. To my magnificent editor, Karen Kosztolnyik, who is not only a writer’s Glinda the Good Witch but an all-around brilliant MoFo and my dear friend. Thank you for waving your magic wand over every word and making the editorial process an utter joy, all while rocking out to Bon Jovi.
Thank you to Rachael Kelly for your professionalism and endless patience as we battled internet goblins together.
What an extraordinarily lucky duck I am to have worked with Anjuli Johnson, production editor extraordinaire, and Alayna Johnson, copyedit queen, who took every S.T.ism in stride. Editing the wordplay of a logophile corvid is no easy feat. You are both spectacular and unrivaled goddesses of grammar.
My eternal thanks to Grand Central geniuses Thomas Louie, Andrew Duncan, Joseph Benincase, Ali Cutrone, Alison Lazarus, Chris Murphy, Karen Torres, Matthew Ballast, Brian McLendon, and Alana Spendley. And a very special supersized thank you to Ben Sevier.
Thank you to Tom McIntyre and Shawn Donley for your kindness and for being so very good at what you do.
To my peerless publicists, Andy Dodds and Jordan Rubinstein, who champion books with a ferocity seen only in adult male bull sharks. I’m so lucky to work with you both. Andy, thank you for always being there.
An elephantine thanks to GCP’s indelibly talented art director, Jarrod Taylor, whose cover art continues to stop traffic.
Thank you to my friends and family who have shown up for me in every way a MoFo could hope for.
To my writerly tribe, Stacy Lawson, Susan Urban, Shoshana Levenberg, Corry Venema-Weiss, Janet Yoder, Billie Condon, Susan Knox, Geri Gale, and our beloved Randy Hale, who is in our hearts as we write every word. An extra special thank you to Susan Urban, whose expert literary eyes I trust to handle the chaos of early drafts. And to Stacy Lawson for working tirelessly to make sure no one discovers I’m actually a female Mr. Bean.
Thank you to Sara Lucas for your Alaskan expertise and for the work that you do. Teachers are true heroes.
To the booksellers who have welcomed me into your stores as though I were family, I am perpetually grateful.
To all the readers, writers, and animal lovers I have been so fortunate to connect with in person and virtually, thank you for the inspiration and kindness. The love that has been shown to my characters is astonishing. And to the artists who have brought S.T. to life with their incomparable talent—I am humbled and in awe. Our waggish little crow has become tattoos, cross-stitches, a purse, a great many paintings, sketches, cakes, cookies, felt art, 3D printings, Halloween costumes, decor, sculptures, cocktails, jewelry, and songs. Your art has inspired me, proving that creativity is bewitchingly contagious.
Thank you to every person protecting our wildlife and our planet. With special thanks to my lovely bird-savior friend, Margie Hanrahan, and the world’s greatest talking crow, Jimini Crowket. And to Petra Link and her darling little budding wildlife ambassador crow, Grover. And boundless gratitude to my friends at Discovery Bay Wild Bird Rescue for everything that you do for Washington wildlife.
To Jpeg, you are the tonic to my gin, the Orange to my Genghis. Thank you for being my partner in crime, creativity, and life, and for not divorcing me over the way I load the dishwasher.
Thank you to the real animals who inspired these characters and the ones who inspire me every day, especially T the crow, who never fails to lift my spirits. And to all the very good creatures who have been a comfort to their MoFos during a global pandemic—well done, darlings.
And to Miso, the real-life Genghis Cat and tiny tiger who ruled my home and heart for fourteen years. I love you, Pip Pip.
About the Author
Kira Jane Buxton’s debut novel, Hollow Kingdom, was a finalist for the Thurber Prize for American Humor, the Audie Awards, and the Washington State Book Awards, and was named a best book of 2019 by NPR, Book Riot, and Good Housekeeping. She spends her time with three cats, a dog, two crows, a charm of hummingbirds, five Steller’s jays, two dark-eyed juncos, two squirrels, and a husband.
Facebook.com/KiraJaneBuxton
Twitter @KiraJaneWrites
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Also by Kira Jane Buxton
Hollow Kingdom
Feral Creatures Page 31