I looked down at my convention badge, embarrassed by the bland information I had supplied for myself. “Destiny,” my actual name, appeared at the top, with “Zebra” in smaller type on the line below. Destiny the Zebra — who was that?
When the online reservation form asked for my “species,” I realized I had never fully considered what animal I would be if I could, although a housecat came to mind: independent, pays no rent, naps a lot, demands food. But a cat seemed so ... basic. I cold-called a friend to ask what kind of animal she thought I would be. “I don’t know, a zebra?” And so I made my first “fursona.”
As I wandered the courtyards and convention halls of Alexis Park Resort over a long weekend at the end of March, that identity felt obviously fake. Las Vegas Fur Con 2024 (LVFC) — one of dozens worldwide gatherings of what’s known as the “furry” community — had 2,141 attendees from 48 states and 12 countries, including 892 fur-suiters (people who dress in full animal costumes). I encountered anthropomorphic canines, felines, horses, dragons. I saw the Lorax disappear down a long hallway. Their chosen names were fun and creative, matching their fursuits and showing the high level of consideration that went into their alter egos.
Still, I was far from the only plain-clothed human there; statistics from the International Anthropomorphic Research Project, a research and advocacy group that also goes by the name Furscience, show that fewer than 15 percent of furries own a full fursuit, almost 50 percent own tails, and about 30 percent own accessories like ears or paws. Most attendees at least wore custom badges, illustrated and laminated depictions of their invented personas.
Alkali Bismuth, a furry personality who has been attending and hosting at conventions for decades, calls fursuiters “living, breathing works of art.” (For safety reasons, furry sources are identified by their fursona name only.) In his panel at LVFC, “So This Is Your First Fur Con,” he explained how “furry” is different from other fandoms. At other conventions for anime or comics, you celebrate fictional characters and worlds created by other people. At a fur con, you celebrate yourself and the power of collective imagination, which manifests not only in gatherings such as this, but in online forums and through shared art and short stories. Alkali, whose fursona is a black-footed ferret in a top hat, doesn’t fully suit up much anymore — but he still can be easily identified by his top hat.
“Furry fandom is about the idea of animals — not their reality, but what they represent in our minds,” Joe Strike writes in Furry Nation: The True Story of America’s Most Misunderstood Subculture.
I was somewhat aware of the furry community from a past relationship that introduced me to furry fiction. I loved reading the stories, enraptured by their worldbuilding, storytelling, and escapism. Eventually
I talked about this fandom so much that my friends were invariably surprised to learn I wasn’t a furry myself.
So when that relationship ended, my fascination with the subculture didn’t. Now, Destiny the Zebra had come to LVFC for a crash course in what is at the furry core: community. A tall horse in a red blazer checked my badge and let me in.
MORE THAN 20 years ago, Las Vegas was the setting for one of the first mainstream mentions of the furry subculture, in an episode of CSI: Crime Scene Investigation titled “Fur and Loathing,” notorious for portraying a “furry orgy” that falsely stereotyped the fandom as sexual deviants.
The first thing to know about being a furry is that it’s all about self-identification; there is no list of criteria that must be met. You don’t need a fursuit or even a fursona, although most devise the latter as a form of personal expression and representation. It’s a simple and open concept meant to reflect the inclusivity and creative freedom of its members; how deeply you get into it is up to you.
Some are fans of existing animal characters, like Mickey Mouse, Sonic the Hedgehog, or Fantastic Mr. Fox. However, most prefer to create their own characters for original fan art and short stories, and as unique representations of themselves.
The fandom began in the late ’70s and early ’80s alongside the rise of sci-fi and anime gatherings. The first fur con, held in 1989 in Costa Mesa, California, was attended by 65 people. But the community continued to grow with the internet, which allowed fans to roleplay in online chat rooms, share and commission furry art, and publish fiction about furry characters. Last year, the most popular fur con drew a crowd of more than 15,000.
These events, held all over the world, offer charity auctions, dance competitions, meet-and-greets, craft workshops, games, live music, comedy shows, fursuit walks, art shows, markets, and educational panels.
At LVFC, I attended a talk about what to do in case of nuclear fallout, hosted by a radiation safety expert wearing a hazmat suit.
Despite this growth, furries are cautious about anything that could lead to further marginalization in mainstream media. When a chlorine gas attack sent 19 people to the hospital at Midwest FurFest in 2014, news reporters proved unwilling to take the event seriously. Furries themselves continued to investigate the incident, linked it to a far-right hate group, and uncovered other potential attacks, as chronicled in an episode of the Worst Year Ever podcast titled, “How the Furries Fought the Nazis and Won.”
In April, a middle school in Payson, Utah, received several bomb threats related to an anti-furry protest — rumors had spread that students were dressing up in costumes and biting or barking at others. (The school superintendent later clarified: The students wore “headbands with animal ears,” and probably didn’t call themselves “furries.”) That was just one of several “furries in schools” controversies in recent years.
In reality, almost everyone loves animals; cartoons are filled with flamboyant animal characters, children are tucked to sleep with stuffed animals, and adults cry when a dog dies in a movie. Animals market everything from cereal to sports teams, including the Aces’ rabbit mascot, Bucket$, and the Golden Knights’ Chance the Gila Monster. They appear in stories everywhere from Indigenous traditions to Aesop’s fables to the Book of Genesis. And cruelty toward animals can be an unforgivable sin — just ask South Dakota Gov. Kristi Noem.
But when it comes to furries, many people are willing believe the urban myths about the community and miss the point entirely.
“I DO REGARD furry as much of a medium of art as I do a community of people.”
At a boba shop near UNLV the week after LVFC, I spoke with RoSphix, a Las Vegas furry artist and a guest of honor at LVFC 2024. They had been wary about agreeing to an interview, worried about my intentions as media. “I need to be more vocal about this to let people know that this thing exists,” they said. “But we also are like a group of marginal people who need to be able to protect ourselves from outside influence.”
Ro, who has more than 25,000 followers across several platforms, received cheers at LVFC’s opening ceremony. Normally, they work behind the scenes as a stage manager and high rigger, including for this year’s Super Bowl Halftime Show with Usher. Growing up in North Las Vegas, they got their start in the Katherine Gianaclis Park for the Arts, a grassroots, community arts project that hosted low-budget, experimental performances, art, and music by local artists. “That was my home,” Ro told me. “That was my college.”
Their art features anthropomorphic rodents, animals that survive on the outskirts of society. “They’re creatures who have been marginalized by humanity and nature itself and they still exist,” Ro said. That resonates with them after growing up queer and a first-generation Hispanic American from a migrant family. Their fursona is a weasel, sometimes with a big grin, sometimes staring off to the distance.
“(Vegas) is a campy town, for sure. Full of messy people who would be considered extremely eccentric if they lived anywhere else. But I do think that this is a city that has a lot of opportunity for weird people to make cultural waves,” Ro said. “I try to bring it across in my art as much as possible.” They wore a partial fursuit to LVFC, a weasel head created and given to them by another furry, a teen artist of Hispanic descent, Grapeshitz, who was excited to see an older Chicano artist in the fandom. Ro recalls their feeling the first time they wore the head at the convention:
“Wow, I get to be who I am. I get to make all the jokes that I want to make. And I get to say the things that I want to say. And people regard me with the attention that I want to have. Suddenly everyone talks to you, and regards you, and does everything exactly the way that you would prefer them to.”
“We know they’re metaphors for ourselves,” writes author Joe Strike, “particularly parts of ourselves we might otherwise never experience.” Fursonas grant people the freedom and safety to openly express aspects that society might otherwise marginalize, such as gender identity, sexual orientation, race, and neurodivergence. This sense of refuge is no small point. According to the Furscience website, a significant percentage of fur enthusiasts identify as LGBTQ+ or report having been abused or bullied; many have had therapists blame their mental health issues on furriness rather than underlying condition, such as depression.
Ro designed this year’s convention T-shirt. Against a caricature of the Las Vegas Strip stands Ace the Coyote, one of four 2024 mascots that use local fauna to represent aspects of the furry community. According to the convention website, Ace represents the “duality of many furs, living one life outside the fandom and living another inside it.” (Furscience again: “Our studies indicate that 65 percent of furries say that they have told almost no one in their family about their furry interests.”) Ro wanted to depict Ace because coyotes are also outsiders, clever and resilient.
MOST FURRY CONVENTIONS are nonprofit organizations that raise money for charities. This year, LVFC raised more than $10,000 for Las Vegas TransPride, which offers support and resources to the local trans-inclusive community. Most of the donations are raised from live auctions and portions of the merchandise sales. “I saved $800 for the cause,” I overheard another LVFC attendee say at the charity auction.
During the convention’s closing ceremony, held atop Alexis Park on a rooftop stage overlooking the Strip, it was announced that the fundraising had topped out at $9,400. Alkali, who has the booming voice of a wrestling announcer, exhorted the crowd to help reach the $10,00 mark, and passed around his signature tophat, as those in the audience opened their backpacks, fanny packs, purses, and wallets for stray bills.
This year’s was the second Las Vegas Fur Con; it grew out of other recent organizations, such as Southern Nevada Anthropomorphic Events and UNLV’s Rebel Anthropomorphic Works and Recreation (RAWR) student club. It was big enough to keep 21 DJs busy, and it was staffed by 177 volunteers, some of whom work circuits of fur cons. There was a flurry of controversy when organizers restricted participants to 21 and over (many are all-ages), but this might’ve helped draw out some older fur fans who want a child-free experience.
And an experience it was. Inside Alexis Park, I saw a friendly teal otter in a vibrant Hawaiian shirt, and several fursuiters who wore “Hugs welcome!” tags and walked around with open arms. “I haven’t seen the new suit!” one person exclaimed. “Yeah, “I’m still getting used to it,” one fursuiter said of their black and white dog outfit, shyly scratching their ear. Many fursuiters dealt with the heat by placing a portable fan in the mouths of their costumes; they reminded me of astronauts. I spoke with a local couple who were planning their honeymoon around a furry convention later this year. I’m sure I’ll see them at next year’s Las Vegas Fur Con. I won’t go as Destiny the Zebra. I’ll go as myself.