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“The Soirée” by Frank LeRenard

Sometimes the simplest thing can put a fellow on-edge. For Johan, this time, it was an invitation to go out drinking.

Today’s story is “The Soirée” by Frank LeRenard, who when not engaging in the arts works as an astronomer in the UK.  His short novel, "The Way to the Lonely Valley" is available from Fenris Publishing.

Read for you by Rob MacWolf — werewolf hitchhiker.

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Transcript
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You’re listening to Pride Month on The Voice of Dog.

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This is Rob MacWolf,

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your fellow traveler,

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and Today’s story is

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“The Soirée” by Frank LeRenard,

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who when not engaging in the arts works as an astronomer in the UK.

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His short novel, "The Way to the Lonely Valley"

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is available from Fenris Publishing.

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Community is perhaps the most necessary thing

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in the struggle for a world where queer people are free

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and accepted. Connecting to it is not automatic,

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and not always easy,

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but the queer community is, because it must be,

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for all of us. Please enjoy

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“The Soirée” by Frank

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LeRenard It began, again,

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with an invite. Just a note

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slid under his door while he was out.

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"Johan," it read. "I and some of the other wolves were going out drinking tonight, to celebrate Annalisa's engagement.

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We'll be at the Old Mother Hen just after sunset, if you wanted to join us.

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us." Signed, Sabine. He set the note on his desk,

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by the whiskey bottle he'd been sipping from for months.

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Tonight just after sunset,

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a few hours hence.

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Enough time to dwell, which always left so little time for anything else.

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It wasn't that he disliked soirées,

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parties, outings, or any other social gathering.

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He was a wolf, and like most wolves, he had social inklings

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that he couldn't ignore all the time.

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But the note stirred up a cloud within him,

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a blossom of silt like from a fish whipping its tail on a lakebed,

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very sudden to arise but very long to linger.

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And within that cloud he saw the kinds of moving pictures which always appeared

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at the behest of these invites.

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He would arrive alone, as he always did.

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Those who knew him would greet him.

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Those who didn't might introduce themselves, or they might not.

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Those who knew him would not introduce him to the others,

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and he would not introduce himself.

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Drinking would commence, slowly at first, accelerating a bit later.

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Conversations would occur.

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If he had something to add, he would interject,

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but if not he would sit silent and listen.

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If he did the latter,

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he would begin to smell the anxiety this caused in those who did not know him well enough to understand this was typical,

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which was most of them.

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And they would know he smelled it.

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They would begin to think about him, then.

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This wolf, who arrived alone.

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They would not have arrived alone, themselves,

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and those who did

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would quickly establish, as organically as possible, that their being alone

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was not typical, that back home they lived with or planned to live with another, or with many others.

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That was the way of wolves: to pack,

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to join, to mate. But he would never establish such a thing himself, and they would feel too awkward to ask, and this would increase their anxiety yet more.

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Their thoughts would wander over the hills of possibility, then,

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in the background of all their conversations.

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Why would he not establish his relations?

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Was he simply very shy,

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and so unwilling to speak unless prompted?

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Should they ask him directly,

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or would that be impolite?

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Was he between relations?

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Did he break one off recently, and did not want to speak of it because the wound was still raw?

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Or perhaps he was ashamed

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of the one he was with

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for some reason? Maybe she was hideous,

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or abused him? Maybe she was a drunkard whom he did not wish to bring to social gatherings

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out of fear of her behavior?

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Or could he be gay?

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But he would not speak on the matter,

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and so it would not resolve for them.

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At the tail of enough drinks, it would drift further into the background, as their focus

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shifted to whatever conversation was at-hand, outside of the

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mind. Politics, entertainment, work. The night would wear on.

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By this time, all of them would be fairly tipsy,

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stepping out with increasing frequency to use the toilets and becoming perhaps

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a bit too loud for the comfort of the other customers,

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most not wolves themselves.

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One of them would spare him a glance.

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Another who came with no one,

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and who admitted

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she was not currently with anyone.

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She would see that he was merely sitting and listening, occasionally staring into space, and so she,

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now imbued with chemical bravery, would pick up her duty as a social creature and sit across from him

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and begin to speak to him.

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He would oblige. He was not anti-social.

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She would ask him questions about himself, about his work, about his interests,

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and he would answer them each in turn.

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Sometimes, because it is the polite thing to do, he would ask her similar questions,

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and he would nod at her answers and try to springboard off of them using his own knowledgebase. They would have a conversation.

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She would find it pleasant enough.

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But at some point during this conversation, she would get a scent about her.

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Back in the day, too, other wolves would get this scent in his presence from time to time,

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but it wasn't until recently that he came to recognize it.

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They would continue to talk, and,

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for a while, the scent would grow stronger,

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become a little signal, a little beacon.

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A little light in the dark gulf between them, expecting to elicit another light back.

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But it would never come, that return light.

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It would never come, and the longer the conversation would go without him sending a light back, the more her own light would fade.

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So at some point, she would excuse herself for the toilet,

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and when she would return

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she would sit across from someone else.

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It would feel awkward for him, then.

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He would wonder if he'd dashed some hope of hers.

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She, too, came alone, and she said she was looking.

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Did she come to him out of pity, or out of interest?

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Did she think sparking up a conversation might create an interest, if it was the former? Did she feel disappointed now?

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Did she feel rejected?

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And how hard a rejection:

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not one of words, not one of body language,

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or clash of personality, or anything else so subtle, but one of

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scent, one of biology.

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The sight of her, the sound of her voice, the smell of her drifting on that alcohol bathwater,

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was met with not even something so twistedly validating as revulsion,

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but instead, somehow,

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was met with utter

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and complete indifference.

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It must have seemed intolerably rude.

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So he would get the drive to clear the air.

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It wasn't her, he would want to tell her. It was him.

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When he was just a pup, he had a friend who was always chasing girls, and he thought,

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that is one who blossomed early.

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When he grew older, he had another friend who found a partner, and he thought, perhaps someday, for me, too.

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When he grew yet older,

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those of his friends still without partners grew quite distressed,

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quite desperate to find someone, anyone,

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and he could not console them

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because he did not understand their desperation. When

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he grew yet older still, after

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all of his friends had finally found partners, had been married and

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gone on honeymoons and even began to have pups,

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finally then he thought:

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I suppose it must be real after all, this thing called romance, this thing called attraction.

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This drive, this instinct, of which songs are sung and tales are written,

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and have been since wolves first came unto this world.

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It must be real after all,

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though I have never once felt it.

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And it was with that realization that

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he came to understand he was not like the others,

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his friends, his colleagues, his own relations.

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He was lacking something that they seemed to have,

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that everyone seemed to have.

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So it wasn't her, and she needn't feel bad.

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But he would say no such thing.

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This would not be the occasion to speak frankly about himself, after all.

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It never was. Ultimately,

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the night would come to an end, and all

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those who arrived would part ways.

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They would all again congratulate Annalisa on her engagement.

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Would hope that next time she would be able to bring the lucky fellow so they could all meet him.

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And he would part from them as well,

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returning home, alone, as always,

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and then his life would go on in peace,

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until the next invite.

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Johan glanced at the note again.

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He tapped his desktop with his sharp dark nails, and his tail began to wag.

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After all, Sabine and the others

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did continue to invite him to such events, even if---perhaps--

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-they found him a bit queer.

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If it went on this way,

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one of these days he would get the proper chance to clear the air.

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And even if there would always be those who didn't know, who thus might feel anxious about his behavior,

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those whom he did know would understand,

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and that would be good enough.

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So when the sun began to set,

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he put on his jacket

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and he stepped outside

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to go meet them at the Old Mother Hen.

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This was “The Soirée”

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by Frank LeRenard,

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read for you by Rob MacWolf,

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werewolf hitchhiker.

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You can find more stories on the web at thevoice.

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thevoice.dog, or find the show wherever you get your podcasts.

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Happy Pride, and Thank you for listening to The Voice of Dog.

About the Podcast

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Furry stories to warm the ol' cockles, read by Rob MacWolf and guests. If you have a story that would suit the show, you can get in touch with @VoiceOfDog@meow.social on Mastodon, @voiceofdog.bsky.social on Blue Sky, or @Theodwulf on Telegram.

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