Disclaimer

Announcer: The Zooier Than Thou podcast contains adult concepts and language and is intended for a mature audience. So if you’re not supposed to hit a pumpkin spice vape this pumpkin season, come back to this episode when you’re older, and, maybe don’t come back to the vape ever, there are better sources of pumpkin spice in the world.

Cold Open - “The Full Moon Society”

Host: We’re called the Full Moon Society. Separately, we’re very different. We like different things, and we have different friends. But one thing draws us together. The howl. Each month, we gather around this fire to share our passions, and our strange and unbelievable tales. It’s what got us together, and it’s what keeps bringing us back. This is a warning to all who join us. You’re going to leave the comfort of the familiar, and step into the world of the untamed night.

Theme Song

Kynophile: Hey, what can I say?

You’ve got me howlin’ at the moon!

Whoa, don’t you know that love is wild when you’re a zoo?

We’re Zooier Than Thou!

Oh yeah!

Sponsors

Announcer: This episode of Zooier Than Thou is brought to you by the number 3.14, currently available in pumpkin, pecan, chess, and sweet potato varieties. 3.14: it’s a big, delicious circle, baby!

Visit us on the web at zoo.wtf, and subscribe using rss.zoo.wtf to get notified every time we’re on the air. If you like what you hear, consider donating at donate.zoo.wtf. All support is dearly appreciated and completely anonymous!

Full Moon Society - Inspiration

Host: We’re called the Full Moon Society. Separately, we’re very different. We like different things, and we have different friends. But one thing draws us together. The howl. Each month, we gather around this fire to share our passions, and our strange and unbelievable tales. It’s what got us together, and it’s what keeps bringing us back. This is a warning to all who join us. You’re going to leave the comfort of the familiar, and step into the world of the untamed night.

---

Host:Alright, friends, you know the drill. Whose turn is it to tell a story?

Toggle: I’m about storied out.

Steeeve: I could tell a story.

Flora: You can’t hog all the story powder, man.

Steeeve: Don’t act like you don’t love my stories.

Tarro: Your stories are lovely, but it’s definitely not your turn, this time.

Narrator: I do believe I’m up this time. But I’m not sure which story to tell. Got any inspiration for me?

Toggle: Well, it’s Howloween, yeah? Veil’s thin this time of year and all.

Eggshell: Yeah, I feel like we need like a real ghost story this time. Like, I want to leave this fire pit and have to exorcise a spirit when I get home.

Narrator: A ghost story… hmmm…

Steeeve: I can see the gears turning from here.

Host: If you need some more inspiration, I could read some of the emails we’ve gotten. People send us stories all the time.

Narrator: That’s not a bad idea. Inspire me!

Host: Let’s see… here’s a good one. Flora, do you wanna do the honors?

Flora: Nice, let’s goooo! Who’s this from… The Lonesome Rider!

Toggle: I remember that guy!

Flora: Subject: Hopefully an interesting E-male…that’s 10 months late. Hmm, interesting way of spelling Email.

Tarro: C’mooon, just read it!

Flora: Cool your jets, trash panda. Ok, The Lonesome Rider writes….

Howdy ZOOTT crew!

Eggshell: Wow, that’s us!

Flora: I’m not sure if you remember me but I wrote in about 10 months ago…(damn it’s actually been that long) and I feel bad that I haven’t written in sooner so my apologies y’all.

Hopefully you’ll understand after reading this E-Male

Also beware this may be a bit of rambling so it’s completely up to you on whatcha do with this <3

Nonetheless I am The Lonesome Rider (tho not really lonely)

So I’ve had some struggles mentally since the last time I wrote in… I was terrified to come out to my parents/friends/adoptive parents because I’d always get asked why I wasn’t looking for a girlfriend or why don’t you ask so and so out etc and it was taking its toll on me… I was scared of being rejected or disowned or something terrible. (it was paranoia) but I’m sure you all understand… I’m happy to say my parents and friends and my “adoptive parents” were surprisingly supportive it went way better than I ever would have imagined. Of course there was questions about consent and how it all worked and I explained it (to the best of my ability) and even recommended the podcast if they were interested in learning more.. Needless to say it’s a Huge weight off my shoulders.

Eggshell: I’ll bet!

Flora: Id also like to say I have a mare friend!! And she’s a lovely lady with a great personality and I love her with all my heart. Tho she’s not mine but my “adoptive parents” horse. And yes they are aware of my sexuality (because they were also the people I came out to) they’re fine with my relationship with her as long as it’s safe and not causing her any harm or distress/discomfort (which is obvious). and just make sure nobody sees you doing anything because we know nothing about it. And that’s fair in my opinion. Tho me and her haven’t done anything sexual but it’s about establishing a bond before anything serious happens. (Even though I’ve known her for like 4 years) We spend a lot of time together and I’ll admit writing in has slipped my mind now that she takes majority of my time.

Steeeve: Horse people facts.

Flora: That being said I’m doing fantastic now and I’m proud to be a zoo.

Tarro: That’s what we love to hear!

Flora: Also toggle I remember you asking what my top 3 favorite episodes were and it’s honestly hard to just choose but I will give an answer 1# Zoophilia and religion S3E1 2# Healthy Happy and Zooey S1E13 3# ZOO 101 S7E1

Tarro: Yoooo shout out, that was my episode!

Eggshell: I love episodes!

Toggle: An interesting set of episodes! Though S1E13 is a little weird to hear. I believe we call that one S1E7.

Flora: Also (again lol) Can I get some opinions on my unique situation/relationship/arrangement with my beloved mare friend. Like is it still considered fence hopping even though I got the green light from her owners? Just curious is all.

All: (as if looking at each other kind of confused by the question and then slowly settling on the same answer) Nnnnooo?

Host: I think the essence of the ethical problem with fence hopping is the lack of consent from the humans who “own” the animal, if you’ll pardon the expression.

Narrator: Duly pardoned.

Toggle: Yeah, you’re also probably not surreptitiously hopping any fences to do it, either. Though I suppose it’s kind of unusual to have such a blessing, so that might be why it’s hard for Lonesome Rider to tell.

Flora: Alright I think I’ll end it here Zoott crew! Thank you for reading this E-male! I love you all! Keep up the great work because you’re saving lives out here <3 (you saved mine).

Eggshell: I’m glad you’re still here, Rider.

Flora: Now it’s time to seal the deal and boogie for awhile (not 10 months again tho) Expect to hear from me more often. And if there is anything in particular you’d like to know just ask.

Stay safe happy healthy and Zooey

-The Lonesome Rider

Host: What an email.

Toggle: Yeah, I don’t know if I’ve ever heard of someone coming out to the owners of an animal and getting their blessing to pursue a relationship with them. That’s kind of wild.

Flora: A little farfetched, if you ask me.

Steeeve: I’ve heard crazier stories that were true.

Tarro: I generally err on the side of believing people’s coming out stories. There’s no benefit in making stuff like that up.

New guy: (out of breath) Sorry I’m late guys. What did I miss?

Flora: Heeeeey, it’s the new guy! Did you get chased here by a wendigo?

New guy: Gimme a break. If my friends found out I was hanging out with y’all, they’d flip.

Steeeve: They sound like very dextrous folk.

Toggle: Not really into being a friend you can’t tell your friends about, to be honest.

New guy: I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant… you know. I can’t let anyone know I’m like you guys. I’m sorry, I just, maybe I should go.

Narrator: No, no, sit down, sit down. I think I know what story I want to tell, and I’d like for you to hear it.

Tarro: Yeah, you already got chased by a wendigo to get here. Might as well rest a while.

Eggshell: Soooo! You finally have a juicy ghost story for us? Is it based on a true story from found footage left in the woods?

Narrator: You can think of it as autobiographical, if you’d like. But yes. Submitted for the approval of the Full Moon Society, I call this tale… “The Hound of All Souls.”

The Hound of All Souls

Narrator: Our village had two churches and one hellhound.

The churches disagreed about nearly everything. The Catholics thought the Calvinists had removed too much furniture from salvation. The Calvinists thought the Catholics had upholstered it. But every October, when the rain turned cold and the cemetery began to smell of iron and leaves, both congregations agreed that the black dog was dangerous.

The Catholics said he came for sinners.

The Calvinists called it superstition, then locked their doors.

No one knew where the hound lived. The sensible theory was the forest. The theological theory was Hell. In our village, these were treated as neighboring jurisdictions.

He was said to come after the final bell on All Hallows’ Eve. First you heard claws on the road. Then you smelled wet earth. Then came three scratches at the door.

If you had loved wrongly, wanted immoderately, or crossed the boundary between human and animal more than the village could forgive, the hound would lead you beyond the cemetery wall. There, depending on denomination, you would be damned, corrected, or made into an example.

I had been warned about the hound since childhood.

By nineteen, I had become exactly the sort of person the warning was designed to produce: polite, useful, and absent from my own life.

The internet had given me a word for what I was. It had not given me much else. I knew there were others like me somewhere, though somewhere remained irritatingly large. I had seen traces of them in careful comments, old artwork, private messages that approached honesty and then lost their nerve. I had learned that a sentence could carry five meanings if everyone involved was frightened enough.

In public, I practiced innocence with the concentration of a bomb technician.

This passed for virtue. It also made my jaw ache.

That Halloween night, my mother had gone to the Catholic vigil after leaving a Calvinist pamphlet beside the door. She liked to cover her options.

I stayed home.

Rain tapped the windows. The fire had burned low. Somewhere beyond the houses, a church bell counted eleven with the solemnity of an institution that had never had to apologize for waking anyone.

Then I heard claws on the road.

Click.

Click.

Click.

The sound stopped outside our door.

I waited.

Nothing scratched.

After several minutes, curiosity defeated theology.

I took the lantern and opened the door.

The hound sat in the rain.

He was larger than any dog had a natural right to be. Water shone on his black coat. His eyes were amber and steady. His collar carried no name, only a brass tag worn smooth by years or hands or both.

He held a loaf of bread in his mouth.

This was not how the story went.

The story said the hound dragged the unrepentant into the forest. It said he marked the homes of those whose appetites had embarrassed God. It said he came for people whose love had crossed the proper line and declined to return.

It said nothing about baked goods.

The hound dropped the loaf at my feet.

I looked at him.

He looked at the bread.

He turned toward the cemetery and looked back with the patient disappointment of an animal whose human has failed a simple command.

So I took the bread and followed him.

I was nineteen, deeply hidden, and still under the impression that obedience was the same thing as goodness. Halloween seemed an appropriate night to begin correcting the record.

The hound walked at an easy pace. He did not check whether I followed again.

At the cemetery, he passed through the iron gate without touching it.

I had to climb.

The respectable dead lay inside the wall beneath clean stones and accurate dates. Mayors, ministers, mothers of twelve, and men whose obituaries had used the word upright so often it began to sound anatomical.

The hound ignored them.

He crossed the churchyard to the far wall and slipped through a gap in the stones. Beyond it, where the nettles grew, the village buried people it preferred to remember as warnings.

Some had been executed. Some had died by their own hand. Some had simply lived too quietly for the village to punish while they were alive, then been corrected in the parish record afterward.

The soil was better there.

The hound stopped before a grave marked by a stone too small to carry a name. He raised one paw and scratched once.

The earth sighed.

A man in a wool coat sat up.

He brushed soil from his sleeves, removed a root from his hair, and looked at the hound.

Kaspar: Is there wine this year?

Narrator: The hound sneezed.

The man took this for confirmation.

He climbed from the grave with less difficulty than I climbed from bed most mornings. He was perhaps thirty, though death had taken the urgency out of guessing. A dark mark circled his neck.

He noticed me and paused.

Kaspar: Living?

POV: At present.

Kaspar: First time?

Narrator: I nodded.

Kaspar: That explains the face.

POV: What face?

Kaspar: The one that says you’ve found a corpse and are trying to remain polite.

Narrator: I had no reply.

Kaspar: Kaspar.

Narrator: He offered his hand. rrt

It was cold, but not unpleasantly so. More cellar than grave.

I gave him my name.

He looked at me for a moment longer than courtesy required.

Kaspar: Zoo?

Narrator: My stomach dropped.

The word had never been spoken to me so casually. Not as an accusation. Not as a diagnosis. Simply as one might ask whether I took sugar.

I said nothing.

Kaspar nodded toward the hound.

Kaspar: He has a type.

Narrator: The hound scratched at another grave. A woman in a red scarf rose complaining that death had done nothing for her knees.

Magdalena: Magdalena,

Narrator: she said.

A black mastiff emerged from beneath the alder beside her grave, shook three centuries of rain from her coat, and nearly knocked Magdalena over with affection.

Magdalena: Mercy,

Narrator: Magdalena said, gripping gripped the dog around the neck.

Magdalena: Still no respect for ceremony.

Narrator: Mercy licked her face.

The next grave belonged to a woman whose stone said only WIFE.

She climbed out, brushed the word with her sleeve, and announced that her name was Marta.

Three dogs came running from the darkness. An old shepherd, a narrow little terrier, and a creature of such uncertain ancestry that even resurrection couldn’t have provided the paperwork.

Marta knelt among them.

Marta: Elise?

Narrator: she asked the hound.

The hound looked toward the forest.

Marta smiled.

Marta: She’ll be at the table.

Narrator: The fourth grave produced a thin man in a printer’s apron. He kept patting his pockets for spectacles that had presumably decomposed several governments ago.

Elias: Elias,

Narrator: he said.

Elias: Printer, blasphemer, and victim of aggressive editing.

POV: Executed?

Narrator: I asked.

Elias: Imprisoned. The damp finished the argument.

Narrator: The fifth grave was newer.

A young man sat up wearing a faded convention badge around his neck. The name had rubbed away, but the cartoon wolf remained visible. He checked his wrist for a watch he was no longer wearing.

Simon: Simon,

Narrator: he said.

Simon: How late am I?

Elias: Dead,

Narrator: said Elias. [I’m unsure whether to leave this line in, but given that Elias just spoke above, it is probably not necessary.]

Simon: Yes, but socially.

Narrator: He had died only the previous spring. Unlike the others, his stone bore a full name, a photograph, and several small plastic flowers.

POV: Were you persecuted?

Narrator: I asked as we walked.

Simon: Online, mostly. I muted them.

POV: Then how did you die?

Simon: Aneurysm.

Narrator: I nodded.

POV: The silent killer.

Narrator: He looked offended.

Simon: Completely off topic.

Narrator: The hound visited one final grave. An elderly woman rose slowly, leaning on a carved walking stick. A greyhound stood waiting beside her.

Her name was Clara. She had lived seventy-eight years, loved three dogs, two women, one horse, and the same unsuitable house through four roofs.

The village had never prosecuted her.

It had merely refused to understand her with remarkable consistency.

The dead emerged without moaning, chains, or dramatic weather. The church had overstated the production values.

They smelled of rain and old cloth, not rot. Kaspar carried the faint odor of hay. Magdalena smelled of smoke and wet mastiff. Simon’s badge clicked softly against his coat as he walked.

We entered the forest.

The dead did not proceed in chronological order.

Kaspar, hanged in 1731, argued with Marta, buried in 1904, about whether potatoes had improved during his absence. Elias insisted that all food had declined since the invention of newspapers. Simon told him newspapers had caused his imprisonment.

Elias: Not the good ones,

Narrator: he said.

Simon asked whether anyone had received his final Telegram message.

Nobody answered.

Simon: I knew I should have pinned it.

Narrator: The hound led us beneath dripping branches. Behind us, the village bells began to ring midnight. Their sound followed through the trees, thin and officious.

I stayed close to the dog.

Kaspar noticed.

Kaspar: He doesn’t bite.

POV: That is not what I was taught.

Kaspar: You were taught by people he declined to fetch.

Narrator: The path descended into a hollow where the rain no longer reached. Lanterns hung from the branches. At the center stood a long table beneath an old beech tree.

It had been set for supper.

The plates did not match. Neither did the centuries.

There was stew, brown bread, cheese, pears, honey, and bottles without labels. A pie had collapsed in the middle and was therefore immediately trustworthy.

Animals moved among the chairs.

Dogs mostly, though not entirely. A fox slept beneath one bench. An old mule stood beyond the firelight. Two goats were eating something that had almost certainly been decorative. At the far end of the table, a bay stallion lowered his head over a man’s shoulder and stole a pear.

Kaspar stopped breathing.

(This was unnecessary, but the body remembers its habits.)

Kaspar: Lorenz,

Narrator: he said.

The horse turned.

For one suspended moment, neither moved.

Then Lorenz crossed the clearing.

Kaspar buried his face against the stallion’s neck. One hand clutched the mane. The other pressed flat against the animal’s shoulder as though confirming that the world, for once, had retained the correct evidence.

Mercy had already occupied the space beneath Magdalena’s chair. Marta’s three dogs found Elise before Marta did. The two women met near the fire, both laughing and crying with the practical efficiency of people who had done nearly everything else together.

The clearing smelled of woodsmoke, fresh bread, wet dog, and horse.

If Heaven had better sense, I thought, it would smell like this.

The hound retrieved another loaf and carried it to the table.

Everyone greeted him. Some called him Old Dog. Simon called him Management. Elias called him Your Eminence. He accepted all titles with the same grave composure.

A chair stood empty beside Magdalena.

She pointed to it.

I remained standing.

The fire cracked. Someone poured wine. Beneath the table, the hound began investigating a dropped piece of cheese with the solemnity of a judicial inquiry.

POV: I’m not dead,

Narrator: I said. [this one might be warranted]

Magdalena: No,

Narrator: Magdalena replied. [Ditto this one. I suspect it would be better for following along]

Magdalena: But not everything buried is.

Narrator: She slid the chair out with her foot.

I sat.

The chair did not judge me, which distinguished it from most village institutions.

A bowl of stew and a glass of wine appeared in front of me.

I had expected questions. The dead asked whether I wanted salt.

For several minutes, no one spoke to me at all.

They discussed ordinary things. A roof that had leaked in 1812. Whether a particular hymn had improved after the organist died. Which of them still owed Kaspar a spoon.

I began to eat.

The stew was hot. The bread cracked beneath my fingers. Someone filled my glass without asking what I believed.

The hound lay across my feet.

I had spent years imagining what it would feel like to be discovered. There had always been shouting in those fantasies. Doors closing. Faces changing. The sudden rearrangement of every relationship I had trusted.

I had not imagined soup.

The conversation moved around me.

Clara told Simon that the afterlife had no reliable calendar.

Simon: Then how do you know when it’s Halloween?

Clara: The living become unusually available.

Narrator: Elias found his spectacles in the bread basket. No one admitted putting them there.

Simon examined my coat.

Simon: First time?

POV: Yes.

Simon: Online or in person?

POV: Either.

Narrator: He nodded.

Simon: That bad.

POV: You had parties?

Narrator: I asked.

Simon: Eventually.

POV: How did you find each other?

Simon: Badly.

Narrator: He drank.

That one word contained several decades.

Simon: They had zines,

Narrator: he continued.

Simon: Letters. Personal ads written by people who thought subtlety meant using three commas. By my time we had group chats where everyone knew something was happening and no one knew whether they were allowed to know it.

POV: How did you get invited?

Simon: I knew someone.

POV: How did you meet them?

Simon: She knew someone.

POV: And before that?

Narrator: Simon looked at me.

Simon: You’re searching for the beginning of a circle.

Narrator: Simon raised his cup.

Simon: These days, the circle has notifications.

Narrator: Magdalena tore off a piece of bread.

Magdalena: The methods change. The fear is very traditional.

Narrator: She told me about Mercy.

The village had called the mastiff her familiar. It made the accusation sound theological and therefore less embarrassing than jealousy.

Magdalena: They said she led me into sin,

Narrator: Magdalena said.

POV: Did she?

Narrator: Magdalena considered this.

Magdalena: Mostly into ponds.

Narrator: Mercy opened one eye beneath the table.

Marta had lived for forty years with Elise and their dogs in a house near the mill. The parish register said Marta died without known family.

Elise had held her hand. Three dogs had refused to leave the bed.

Records are very good at preserving facts nobody present would recognize.

Elias had printed a pamphlet defending what he called affections across the order of creation.

POV: Did anyone read it?

Narrator: I asked.

Elias: The authorities did.

POV: Did they understand it?

Elias: Let us not become fanciful.

Narrator: Kaspar said little.

Lorenz stood behind him, breathing gently over his shoulder. Every few minutes, the horse stole something from Kaspar’s plate. Kaspar allowed this with the solemn patience of a man receiving back every stolen year at once.

Eventually, I asked.

POV: What happened to him?

Narrator: The table quieted.

Kaspar rested one hand against Lorenz’s muzzle.

Kaspar: The court destroyed him before they hanged me.

Narrator: He said it without drama. Three centuries had worn the drama away and left the fact.

Kaspar: They recorded his color,

Narrator: he continued.

Kaspar: His age. His value. The cost of the rope. Courts are meticulous about the least important things.

Narrator: Lorenz pressed closer.

Kaspar: They did not record that he followed me from one end of the pasture to the other. Or that he slept outside my window in winter. Or that he broke through the stable door when they came to arrest me.

POV: I’m sorry,

Narrator: I said.

Narrator: Kaspar tore bread from the loaf.

Kaspar: Very useful emotion, after.

Narrator: I repeated the horse’s name.

POV: Lorenz.

Narrator: Something in Kaspar’s face changed.

Kaspar: Thank you,

Narrator: he said.

No one spoke for a while.

The hound shifted his weight over my feet.

Then Simon complained that the dead received inadequate notice for seasonal events, and the table returned to life.

The stories continued.

Some were cruel. Some were ridiculous. Some were ordinary enough to hurt more.

Not everyone at the table had been executed or imprisoned.

Clara had grown old.

Simon had found friends and lost them, attended parties, written emails, and lived long enough to become irritated with how easy those who came after him had it. He had died with plans for the weekend.

The dead were not interested in being reduced to their deaths.

They had already endured that from historians.

They remembered one another by recipes, jokes, animals, arguments, and the places where someone had first said the thing without flinching.

They remembered every person who had made space.

They remembered every room.

Magdalena watched me finish half the bowl.

Magdalena: You can put the word down.

Narrator: I stopped.

POV: What word?

Magdalena: The one you’ve been carrying all night.

POV: I don’t know what you mean.

Magdalena: Of course you do.

Narrator: My hands tightened around the bowl.

I had rehearsed the word alone. Into blankets. Into running water. Once into the ear of a sleeping dog, who had accepted the information without visible surprise.

Here, with the dead and their animals and the rain beyond the firelight, it felt almost small enough to say.

POV: I’m a Zoo.

Narrator: No one gasped.

The hound’s tail struck the ground once.

Magdalena nodded.

Magdalena: Yes.

Narrator: Kaspar kept his eyes on the bread.

POV: You knew?

Narrator: I asked.

He looked toward the hound.

Kaspar: He has a type.

Narrator: That was all.

I had expected the sky to split.

The only thing that split was the loaf.

Kaspar tore it in two and passed me half.

Marta leaned across the table.

Marta: What breed?

Narrator: I told her.

Marta: Does he steal blankets?

POV: Constantly.

Marta: Then you chose wisely.

Narrator: Someone poured more wine.

My shoulders dropped so suddenly I felt them move.

I had not known how much effort went into holding myself above my own body. Breath entered places it had apparently been denied for years.

The clearing did not become brighter. Angels did not descend. No one congratulated me for courage.

I was simply still there.

So was everyone else.

For the first time in my life, the truth had entered a room and nothing broke.

I began to laugh.

It started quietly, then escaped.

The dead joined in, though they did not know why. Or perhaps they did.

The hound raised his head and looked at me with the mild concern dogs reserve for humans who have finally understood something obvious.

Magdalena lifted her cup.

Magdalena: To the living!

All: The living!

Narrator: the table answered.

It was then that a lantern appeared between the trees.

Conversation stopped.

Pastor Amsler entered the clearing with rain on his coat and a Bible under one arm. He was a tall man with a narrow mouth and the particular posture of someone who believed posture was evidence.

I knew him well.

He had confirmed me, corrected me, and once preached an entire sermon about unnatural appetite while refusing a second slice of cake.

His lantern shook.

He saw the animals first.

Then the graves’ missing occupants.

Then me.

My body reacted before my mind did. My spine straightened. My face began assembling innocence.

The hound placed his chin on my knee.

Pastor Amsler pointed at me.

Pastor Amsler: Come away from there.

Narrator: No one moved.

Pastor Amsler: Now.

Narrator: I looked at the table.

POV: I’m eating.

Pastor Amsler: You do not know what they are.

POV: They know what I am.

Narrator: The words had left me before fear could edit them.

Narrator: His face changed.

There it was. The moment I had imagined for years.

It was smaller than expected.

His eyes moved over Kaspar and Lorenz, Magdalena and Mercy, Marta with Elise and their dogs. He looked at them as though they were stains on a clean cloth.

Pastor Amsler: You have no place among the living.

Narrator: Kaspar glanced around the table.

Kaspar: That seems to be the theme.

Pastor Amsler: Return to your graves.

Magdalena: We have,

Narrator: said Magdalena. [Unsure this one is necessary, will depend on how distinct Magdalena’s voice sounds in the audio.]

Magdalena: This is what we do there.

Narrator: Pastor Amsler raised the Bible.

Pastor Amsler: You mock holy things.

Narrator: Magdalena looked at the bread in her hand.

Magdalena: We are eating them.

Narrator: The pastor’s gaze returned to me.

Pastor Amsler: You will come home.

Narrator: I wanted to.

That was the terrible part.

Every habit I had built leaned toward obedience. Go with him. Apologize. Explain. Say you had been frightened. Say the hound had tricked you. Say anything that would return the world to its familiar arrangement, with him certain and me divided.

The dog’s head remained on my knee.

I ran my fingers through the wet fur behind his ears.

POV: I am home,

Narrator: I said.

Narrator: My voice shook.

The sentence did not.

Pastor Amsler looked from me to the hound and back again. Anger rose in him, but hunger rose too. I saw it in the way his eyes moved toward the bread.

His hunger was the only honest thing about him.

Magdalena pulled out the chair on her other side.

Magdalena: Sit.

Narrator: He stared at her.

Magdalena: You’re hungry.

Pastor Amsler: I would rather starve.

Magdalena: Yes. That seems to be your problem.

Narrator: No one laughed.

For a moment, Pastor Amsler stood at the edge of the firelight with his lantern, his Bible, and the empty chair between them.

Then he turned and walked back into the forest.

No one followed.

We left the chair set.

The feast continued, though more quietly at first.

Someone passed me the pie.

Kaspar complained that the pastor had taken the good lantern. Marta said certainty required proper lighting.

Before long, the laughter returned.

That was perhaps the strangest thing.

Nothing had been resolved. Pastor Amsler still knew. Morning still waited. The village had not changed because I had eaten dinner with its Zoo dead.

But fear had lost its monopoly on the future.

Around three, the dead began gathering plates.

Dawn, Magdalena explained, imposed certain practical limitations.

POV: I thought you were spirits.

Magdalena: We are dead, not irresponsible.

Narrator: They wrapped bread in cloth and divided the remaining cheese. The hound received several bones, each from a century too polite to identify.

One by one, the dead took the path back toward the cemetery.

The animals went with them.

Lorenz walked beside Kaspar, their shoulders nearly touching. Mercy carried Magdalena’s scarf in her mouth. Marta and Elise followed their dogs, who had already selected the route and saw no reason to consult anyone.

At the wall, Kaspar climbed into his grave and arranged his coat beneath his head. He said to me,

Kaspar: Bring better wine next time.

POV: I don’t know anything about wine.

Kaspar: You’re alive. Learn something useful.

Narrator: Lorenz lowered his head into the grave.

Kaspar pressed his forehead to the horse’s muzzle.

Neither said goodbye.

Marta embraced me. She smelled of lavender and dog.

Simon handed me his faded convention badge.

POV: I can’t take this.

Simon: You can bring it back next year.

POV: What if I don’t come?

Simon: You will. 

Simon: I had plans…

POV: I’m sorry.

Simon: Don’t be. Just make some yourself.

Narrator: Elias found his spectacles in his pocket, though no one remembered seeing him put them there.

Magdalena stood beside her grave with Mercy leaning against her leg.

POV: Do I have to tell anyone?

Narrator: I asked.

Magdalena: No.

POV: Should I?

Magdalena: That depends who is asking.

POV: I mean about me.

Magdalena: I know what you mean.

Narrator: She looked toward the village.

Magdalena: Truth is not a debt you owe to every room.

Narrator: I waited.

Magdalena: But find at least one where you can afford the whole thing.

Narrator: Mercy licked my hand.

Then Magdalena stepped backward into the earth and was gone.

The mastiff followed like a shadow returning to its proper body.

The hound and I walked home beneath a paling sky.

At our gate, he dropped a remaining loaf into my hands. His brass tag caught the first light.

I reached for it, hoping the angle might reveal a name.

The metal was blank.

POV: What do they call you?

Narrator: He licked my wrist.

This answered nothing and seemed sufficient.

My mother was waiting in the kitchen. Her rosary lay coiled beside a cold cup of tea.

She looked at my muddy shoes, the bread under my arm, and the black fur clinging to my coat.

Mother: Where have you been?

POV: At supper.

Mother: With whom?

Narrator: I thought of Kaspar and Lorenz. Marta and Elise. Magdalena’s empty grave. Simon’s badge in my pocket. The hound’s head on my knee.

POV: Friends.

Narrator: It was not the whole truth.

It was the first answer that did not feel like a lie.

My mother looked toward the door.

Mother: You smell like wet dog.

POV: Yes.

Narrator: Years passed.

I left the village, as most people with a future eventually did.

The first gathering of living Zoos I attended was above a bar in a city where no one knew my mother. The door had no sign.

I watched it all evening.

Then someone handed me a drink and told me to stop letting the cold in.

I did.

We built rooms.

Some lasted an evening. Some lasted decades. Some were hotel suites, kitchens, workshops, back gardens, or message threads that became spare bedrooms.

None were perfect.

People quarreled. Trust was extended too early and withheld too long. Someone always forgot bread.

But the rooms existed.

Eventually, I built one of my own.

Every Halloween, I set a long table.

There is stew, brown bread, cheese, pears, and wine better than anything I could have afforded at nineteen. One chair remains empty beside mine.

Living guests arrive first.

Some have known me for years. Some enter with their shoulders too tight and their eyes returning to the door.

We do not ask what they are.

We ask whether they have eaten.

At midnight, claws sound on the road.

Click.

Click.

Click.

The hound has never aged.

He brings the dead.

Kaspar complains about the wine, though he drinks it. Lorenz steals pears over his shoulder. Magdalena sits with Mercy beneath the table. Marta and Elise arrive with enough dogs to challenge the available floor space.

Simon inspects the younger guests and finds them insufficiently grateful for broadband.

Elias brings revisions to his pamphlet.

Sometimes the hound brings strangers.

Sometimes he brings people we knew.

Once, many years after that first supper, he arrived with Pastor Amsler.

Death had made him quieter, though not noticeably shorter.

He stood at the edge of the firelight wearing the same black coat. He looked at the table, then at the empty chair.

Pastor Amsler: Why am I here?

Narrator: he asked. [This is an edge case. May or may not be warranted here.]

Kaspar nodded at the hound.

Kaspar: He has a type.

Narrator: Magdalena had waited three centuries for worse men.

She pulled out the chair.

Pastor Amsler sat.

This did not forgive him.

It did, however, give forgiveness somewhere to begin.

For a while, he said nothing.

Then he picked up the bread.

Pastor Amsler: Is there wine?

Narrator: Kaspar poured it.

No one mistook this for an apology.

One begins where one can.

The village still tells children that the black dog comes for sinners. Parents shut their doors. Ministers warn against wandering after dark.

Each generation adds some new appetite to the list of things the hound allegedly punishes.

This is useful.

It keeps the most tedious people indoors.

But the story is wrong.

He has never dragged anyone to Hell.

He has never taken a soul.

He only brings them home.

Full Moon Society Part 2

Eggshell: OK, I approve.

Tarro: That was a really good one, yeah.

New Guy: Yeah… hey, listen… I don’t think I’m ready to come out to anyone yet, but… I do want you all to know how much it means to me that you let me come here with you tonight.

Toggle: We know. And thank you.

Zemen: We appreciate you joining us.

Steeeve: Everyone starts as the new guy. Before you know it, you’re gonna blink and be the old guy stoking the fire for the next new guy to come along.

Flora: No one here is quite as old as you are yet.

Steeeve: Touché. Wisdom before beauty, as they say.

Samhain Ritual 2026

Host: Welp! With our story told, the time has come for our ritual. Master of Ceremonies, would you do the honors?

Master: Absolutely. Please, dear friends, be still, and settle into the silence of this moment. Listen to the forest around you, and feel those you have lost gathering around the edges of the clearing. We are not alone.

Fellow Members of the Full Moon Society! Tonight, we gather in this sacred place where the veil is thin, where stories are told, where memories are shared, to call to those we love on the other side. Those who share our history. Those who share our souls. Those who share our hearts. We call to you who have passed beyond. Come and return to us. Hear our stories as we remember you. For in remembering, we let you live again.

Who would like to go first?

Zoo 1: You would watch me with such knowing, loving eyes, the likes of which pierced my very soul and left me vulnerable to you. You, who never even thought of hurting me. You, who I still think of every day. You, who will forever be loved and missed. You came into my life so early, and left before I could come to terms with myself. I hope you know now how much you changed my life, Lily.

Master: We will remember.

All: We will remember.

Zoo 2: Kai, I still remember the feeling of your claws on my thigh, in the dead of night. Our love for each other grew over the years, but I didn’t have a name for it until long after I’d lost you. I miss your ebony fur, and how you understood when no human cared to. I wish I could take every time I was short with you back. I wish I had more time to show you how much I had loved you. On the cold winter night when you walked into the snow and I never saw your golden eyes again. I wish I was there to stop you. I love you Kai I always will.

Master: We will remember.

All: We will remember.

Zoo 3: To my little hundchen, For the short time I got to know you, you were the most independent strong girl I ever knew. You led us on adventures, gave me attitude for being a slow and distracted wolf, and for being one of the friendliest dogs I knew, you could also be quite demanding for having us pet you until we go numb. I’d do it again and again, just to watch you kick your leg again and grumble. You were told you were ill, and that didn’t stop you from giving our lives so much joy with you. You had more energy than we did, so I’m grateful you put up with us tired, creaky wolves.

I wasn’t your wolf, but you accepted me into your pack. You trusted me to care for you. I will forever be grateful for that. I hope to repay your kindness to others until we meet again.

Master: We will remember.

All: We will remember.

Zoo 4: It’s been nearly a year since I held you in that dim, quiet, peaceful room. There was an ambience of chirping crickets from a little noise machine. You were laying on several layers of blankets to keep you as comfortable as possible.

We told you over and over again how much we loved you, how much we were going to miss you, and how thankful we were for your lifetime of friendship and company. I held you in my hands as the vet pushed the drugs intended to ease and end your suffering, and then you were gone. My eyes remember the searing hot avalanche of tears as I sit here writing this. I’m certain I’ve never cried harder in my life.

“Do you know that it is possible to cry so hard that your tears turn to blood?” This quote sticks with me. It wasn’t literally true for me but it surely felt like it.

I am so sorry we didn’t have more time together. I am so sorry we couldn’t do more for you in your final days. While I am incredibly grateful that we got to say goodbye on our terms, that we got to say everything we wanted to say to you, my grief still feels like a black hole in my chest.

Your playful vocalizations. Your uniquely silly way of bringing toys to folks, then completely ignoring the toy and just enjoying time with anyone who gave you attention. Your loving smile, your bright and expressive eyes.

My dear sweet Albert. You were the best friend anyone could ever ask for. Thank you for a lifetime of companionship. You are deeply, profoundly missed.

Master: We will remember.

All: We will remember.

Zoo 5:  I think I’ll start at the end. The cancer that took you was brutal and fast and totally unexpected. I was unprepared, and I was angry because after you collapsed, the emergency veterinarian made it seem like it was just a day in the office, and why wouldn’t I have known it was gonna happen? Well, I didn’t expect it. Up to those last months, you’d been vibrant and beautiful, and even after the surgery, you still were until you weren’t. And I think it’s the most difficult thing any zoo ever goes through. We traveled the entire continent together from Mexico to Alaska, through Canada and the US, from the West Coast to the East. You were always ready for adventure with me. All the times we spent camped up together in the mountains in that tiny tent. People always wanted to stop us and talk about you when we were out and about. And why wouldn’t they? You were stunningly handsome, very sexy. Everything was extraordinary with you. I loved you. I love you. I miss you every day.

Master: We will remember.

All: We will remember.

Zoo 6: This is hard to write. I don’t know if you had a name, or a home, but I want you to know I think about you so, so often, and it’s a painful memory that haunts me like shell shock, or flashbacks to a bad acid trip. But I want you to know I remember you, and I remember your sister. You deserved better, but sometimes the world is so cruel and uncaring that it’s difficult to bear.

I remember driving home one night, and there was a section along this road where a normal street became an express way. And at that junction, you were there in the street, already dead. Someone had hit you and driven off without a second thought. But I stopped in the middle of the road, because hovering over you was your sister, who was standing guard over your corpse and trying to get you to move. She didn’t know. She was too young to know. You were both just puppies.

I put on my hazards and got out of the car. Your sister was friendly, but cautious, and she would not leave your side. I knew the only way to get her out of the road was to move you, so I picked you up unceremoniously by your legs and hefted you into far a small clearing on the side of the road between a shopping center and a wooded neighborhood. You were so heavy, impossibly heavy, and it felt so wrong to hold a dog like that. But she followed, concerned, trying to make sure I was taking care of you.

She was bone thin. I think you were both from the same litter, because you looked so much alike. Same markings, same age, same lithe, hungry frames. And she would not leave your side, standing over you like a sentry. I moved my car out of the road and into the parking lot and stayed there with her for maybe half an hour. I knew if I left, she’d eventually try to cross the busy road again, and I couldn’t bear the thought of her sharing the same fate.

Over that time, I was affectionate, and I tried to show her kindness as she processed that you were never going to get back up. Eventually, I was able to coax her into my car. But I didn’t know what I was going to do. You were pit bulls, which meant I couldn’t take her to an animal shelter. And I had a rowdy bunch of male dogs of my own, and I couldn’t afford to bring another one into my home. At the very least, I endeavored to bring her far away from that intersection so she couldn’t be tempted to come find you again and risk crossing that road.

I brought her to my house, but my dogs didn’t take kindly to her. Still, I want you to know I fed her and gave her water, and she was grateful. She wanted to come in. I wanted to let her in. I wanted to give her a loving home and show her there was kindness in this world that she had not yet gotten to experience, but I could not. I made a palette on my porch and left out some water, but I could not take her in.

I had hoped to see her around the neighborhood the next morning. I chose to bring her home because I knew that even if she lived on the streets in my neighborhood, people here were careful of the street dogs that roamed around, and always slowed down when they wandered foolishly in the road.

But I never saw her again.

I worried she’d tried to go back to you, and I watched fearfully for her to turn up on the side of the road between my home and that intersection, sharing the same fate as you. But she never turned up, and I have no idea what happened to her.

It’s been a few years since this happened, and I still think about both of you so often. I’m sorry I couldn’t do more. I’m sorry I was too late to stop you from crossing the road. I’m sorry I couldn’t take care of your sister. But I remember you. You are not forgotten to time. And I hope that brings you some peace.

Master: We will remember.

All: We will remember.

Zoo 7: We don’t walk so much anymore.

I love walking with you. You’re still so strong. So fast. But you let me go at my own pace. You always give me time to explore– to smell the smells, to see our friends’ houses, to walk through the places where I used to run.

I still like to run. It’s harder now. Remember when I’d ask you to throw the ball all day long? I never got tired. You would get tired first! You’d go sit down and I’d bring you my rope so we could play tug of war. I’d pull as hard as I could and you’d tell me how strong I was.

I’m not as strong anymore.

You taught me not to jump up when you got home. I was just so happy to see you! I’m still so happy to see you. I wag my tail and you come down to say hello to me. I miss you when you’re not home. You always come back, though. I know that now. I used to get so scared, but now I know that I’ll take a nap, watch the squirrels for a little while, and you’ll be right there soon to give me a hug and tell me about your day.

You got me a ramp to get up onto the bed. That was so nice. You were so scared when I couldn’t get up there anymore. It had been getting harder for a while. I was surprised too when my jump came up short. We went to the doctor, she said I was just getting old. You’re still so young! It’s like when I was little and you’d pick me up.

I don’t play so much anymore.

Remember when you’d move your feet under the covers and I’d grab them? You’d call me silly and rub my belly. You give the best belly rubs. Sometimes when I have a bad dream, I wake up and you’re right there telling me it’s okay. You always seem to know. I like that. I feel safe.

I don’t eat as much anymore.

You never used to give me food off of the table, but lately you’ve been giving me an extra treat once in a while. That’s so kind of you. Even if I don’t have the appetite, it’s nice that you think of me. It’s so fun to find an extra special treat with my dinner. Remember when I’d go so crazy at dinnertime? It was so exciting. It’s still exciting, but it’s a lot harder for me to show it.

You really are the best, you know that? I’m so grateful that I get to be with you. Some people weren’t so nice before I met you. I was afraid that all people might be like that. Our friends are so kind too. They even bring me presents sometimes! Last time they all came over, you gave me a cake! That was amazing. I’ve never had a whole cake before. Everyone was having so much fun when I ate it. You cried when they went home. I curled up with you and you cried more. It’s okay though. You make me feel better when I’m sad. I hope I make you feel better too.

Thank you for loving me. I love you.

Master: We will remember.

All: We will remember.

Master: Let’s take a moment to remember the two-legged animals in the community who meant so much to us that we’ve lost. M. Kiok, who worked extensively with Zeta Verein (FAR-ein), passed away this year. He would be happy to know that his companions are safe and in good, loving hands. We remember Fausty, who spent his final year contributing something to this community that has lived on for 8 years. Many of us have memories of others who were integral to our zoo journeys. Friends, mentors, leaders, who have crossed to the other side of the veil. In honor of them, we will remember.

All: We will remember.

Master: Take a moment to remember and honor your loved ones on the other side of the veil. Remember all the wonderful memories you shared with them. Remember the brightness they brought into your life. Tell them the things you always wished you could let them know. Say their names out loud. This is your time.

(long moment of quiet)

Master: We will remember.

All: We will remember.

Master: (triumphantly) Our stories are told and our loved ones are here with us. Their lives became inexorably intertwined with ours, and ours were made all the richer for it. Through us, they live forever. And at this time we can feel them closer than ever. Ancestors! Lovers! Friends! Stay with us and guide us with your love and wisdom always. We will remember!

All: We will remember!

Kynophile: Return to the earth, to the meadows, where I loved you

Becoming a part of the ever, of the river

Remember my name, and be joyful, no more sorrow

I’ll see you again, when it’s time…

Until then…

Outro

Tarro: Thanks, friends, for listening to Zooier Than Thou!

Toggle: Our next episode is scheduled for November 24th!

Tarro: It’s bound to be an episode about something, so don’t miss it!

Toggle: You can subscribe to the podcast via our zooey RSS feed. Just point your favorite podcast client at rss.zoo.wtf. You can also check out our extensive bonus content at bonus.zoo.wtf. If you wanna show your support financially, head on over to donate.zoo.wtf. Find us on BlueSky at, you guessed it, @zoo.wtf

Tarro: Our podcast website hasn’t changed, and you can find a form that enables anonymous submissions to the podcast. You can also simply email us at [email protected]. Remember to make sure to let us know if we can read your message on the air, and a name we can use when reading it!

Toggle: Share this podcast with someone who loves ghost stories!

Tarro: I’m Tarro, and I live in a trash can down by the river!

Toggle: And I’m Toggle, and despite all my rage, I still just a rat in a modest three-bedroom house outside of Pittsburgh, and you’ve almost finished listening to Zooier Than Thou. Stay defiant, fellow zoos. We’ll see you next time you feel like howling at the moon.

Both: Awoo!

Eggshell: I love howling!