Roughly once a millisecond, somewhere on a furry board, someone says something about what constitutes furriness. Roughly once a week, in a desperate fit of work avoidance, (which happens way more than once a week, but I like to divvy those moments up between things like forums, Livejournals, doing laundry and working on my Great Unfinished Samurai Novel) I respond to one of these statements with my standard issue response, which is “I think animal people are cool. I like drawing them. But I don’t think I’ve got the soul of a wombat, or anything.”
While I was doodling randomly today, I wound up with a wombat. And decided that, assuming the wombat hoarded Flavor Blasted goldfish, drank Earl Grey tea, divided her reading time between books on evolutionary biology and schlocky fantasy novels, and in general acted exactly like a female human artist, it was just barely possible that I did, in fact, have the soul of a wombat. But it’d have to be a pretty unusual wombat.