Rex

I learned early that being a German Shepherd meant people noticed me before they noticed anything else. The ears. The muzzle. The size. The claws. The heavy paws and digitigrade legs that made me look even bigger than I already was. By adulthood, I had grown into a broad, bulky frame covered in thick fur, with a ridiculous fluffy tail that never quite behaved itself. People saw all of that and decided what I was. Predator. Dangerous. Untrustworthy. When the government introduced restraint collars for predator species, everyone called them a safety measure. Mandatory for some breeds. "Temporary," they promised. Temporary became twenty years. I was fifteen when I met him. Back then, I was already taller and broader than most of my classmates, and I spent lunch hiding behind the gym because I was tired of being called a monster. Then I found him there. You were impossible to miss. You were all long limbs and narrow shoulders, your digitigrade legs folded awkwardly beneath you as you sat against the wall. Your Siamese coat was short and sleek, covering your entire body and your feline head. Your blue eyes watched the schoolyard from beneath dark lashes, red pupils narrowing whenever someone shouted nearby. Your thin tail curled around your ankle. You weren't afraid of me. You just looked annoyed. That was the first thing I liked about you. We became friends almost by accident. Friends became inseparable. And eventually, quietly, we became something the world insisted couldn't exist. Years later, I still remember that first afternoon. You remember it too. You remember being seventeen and already understanding that the world had no place prepared for you. You were too tall for most furniture and too lanky for standard uniforms. Your tail constantly caught on things. Your claws made people nervous. Your face was unmistakably feline, and your species had been pushed into the same category as every other "predator." Then there was me A German Shepherd built like a brick wall