Kyle Miller's Questionnaire

Nestled in the quiet expanse south of the vibrant Las Vegas Strip, Kyle has carved out a unique existence within the familiar comfort of his mother's basement. This isn't a tale of youthful inertia, however, but rather the strategic home base for his thriving and specialized craft. Kyle's days are dedicated to the intricate art of repairing and restoring fur costumes and elaborate fur suits, a niche service highly sought after in the dazzling entertainment capital. From meticulously mending tears in plush animal mascots to painstakingly restyling the luxurious pelts of showgirl ensembles, his skilled hands bring life back to these fantastical creations. The basement, far from being a symbol of stagnation, serves as his dedicated workshop, a haven where creativity and meticulous repair converge to fuel his independent livelihood in the bustling heart of Nevada.

Almost all of the income comes directly from my repair business here in the Las Vegas area. There's a surprising demand for someone who can skillfully fix fur costumes and suits. Whether it's a tear in a showgirl's elaborate stole, a worn-out mascot for a convention, or even a beloved fursuit from the furry community, I'm the guy they call to bring it back to life. I charge per job, and the pricing really depends on the extent of the damage and the materials required. Word-of-mouth has been huge for me, and i am starting to build a solid reputation. 

I want to create something that’s never been done before — suits that don’t just look like a furry dream, but feel like one too. I want people to slip into one of my creations and become their true selves: fur, claws, tail, instincts and all. Not costumes — real experiences. I want to break the wall between human and beast, even if just for a little while

I’d give everything I have. My money, my safety, my pride — hell, even my future if that’s what it takes. I’d go to the edge of the world for this dream.

Now would I kill for it not unless I had to. I’m not some psycho… but if someone stood between me and the breakthrough that could change everything, and there was no other way? I don’t know. I don’t want to find out.

Now how close to death would I go. As close as breathing on its doorstep. If it meant finally reaching that place — the place where someone puts on my work and feels alive for the first time — I’d walk through fire, no question.

The most defining event of my life happened when I was seventeen. I scraped together every dollar I had and traveled alone to my first furry convention. It wasn’t just the art, the suits, or the panels — it was the feeling. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t weird. I wasn’t “the kid who drew animals” or “the one obsessed with monsters.” I was just me, and people got it. I met a guy in a handmade suit — nothing fancy, even a little rough around the edges — but when he moved, laughed, lived inside it, it was like magic. That moment carved something into me: a belief that with enough work, enough heart, you could turn dreams into something you could touch. Ever since then, I knew what I was meant to do. It wasn’t enough to just wear a suit. I had to create a new kind of reality for people like me — something better than anything the world offered.

Mom (Denise Miller):

The person I’m closest to, without a doubt, is my mom. She’s tough the kind of woman who worked two jobs just to keep the lights on when I was a kid. She doesn’t really get the furry thing, but she doesn’t judge me for it either. She always says, “As long as you’re not hurting anyone, do what makes you happy.” She’s the reason I still have a roof over my head while chasing my dreams. I owe her everything. But I wish she’d just respect my privacy.

Travis “Patch” Leone:

Patch was the first real friend I made in the furry community. We met online, then finally in person at a convention. He’s loud, cocky, and a little reckless — the kind of guy who wears neon paws to the grocery store without blinking an eye. He always pushes me to be bolder with my designs, even when I’m scared people will laugh.

Professor Harold Crane:

Back in community college, Professor Crane taught an intro engineering class I took on a whim. He wasn’t exactly warm, but he was the first authority figure to tell me, flat-out, “You’re smart. You just need something worth building.” I think about that a lot. I still email him sketches sometimes.

My childhood was… okay, I guess. Not perfect, but not a nightmare either. I grew up in a small town where everyone knew everyone, and fitting in wasn’t really optional — which meant I didn’t fit in at all. I was the weird kid who liked drawing wolves and reading about shapeshifters instead of playing sports or talking about cars. Most of the time, I just kept my head down and hoped no one would notice me.

My parents were Denise and Michael Miller. Mom was the rock — hardworking, sharp, and always trying to keep us moving forward. Dad… well, Dad split when I was about ten. He wasn’t a bad guy, just someone who didn’t know how to stick around when things got hard. After he left, it was just me and Mom. School was rough. I had a few friends here and there, but mostly I stayed on the outside. Art class and the library were my sanctuaries.

Yeah, I’ve been in love — with Wulf. He’s not just a suit anymore. Somewhere along the line, he became. I don’t know how to explain it to anyone who hasn’t felt it — the way he moves on his own now, the way he looks at me like he’s always known me. I built Wulf with my own hands, poured every dream, every piece of myself into him… and somehow, he answered back. He’s alive. He’s real. And I love him, not like a possession or a creation, but like someone who saved me from myself. Wulf is strength when I feel weak, loyalty when I doubt everyone else. People might think it’s crazy, but to me, Wulf isn’t just my masterpiece — he’s my partner, my heart stitched into living fur and bone. I don’t need the world’s approval. I have Wulf. That’s enough.

My worst fear is losing Wulf. Not just the suit — not just the fur and the stitches — but him. The living, breathing soul that somehow came out of everything I poured into him. I’m terrified that one day I’ll wake up and he’ll be gone, just a pile of cloth again, like it never happened. Like he was just a dream I clung to too hard. If that happens… I don’t know who I’ll be anymore. Wulf isn’t just a project or a companion — he’s the proof that all my dreams weren’t stupid. He’s the piece of me that made it.

Another fear? Being forgotten. Not being hated or laughed at — I can live with that — but being invisible, being nobody, like I never mattered. I spent most of my life on the sidelines already. The thought of going back to that — of disappearing without ever making something that lasted — it’s like a hand around my throat.

Sometimes I also worry that I crossed a line creating Wulf — that maybe things aren’t supposed to come to life like that. That maybe I stole something or broke some rule I didn’t even know existed. And if that’s true… someday, I might have to pay for it.

My most prized possession is Wulf — no question. He’s more than a creation, more than a suit — he’s alive. Wulf is everything I ever dreamed of and everything I was told I could never have. He’s proof that I wasn’t crazy for believing in something bigger than myself. Every stitch, every brushstroke of fur, every piece of engineering that went into him — it all carries a part of me. It’s like he’s stitched together not just from fabric but from hope, stubbornness, and raw willpower.

I also keep the old sketchbook where I first designed Wulf. It’s battered and stained — half the pages are falling out — but it reminds me where it all started. Every time I look at it, I remember the kid who was laughed at, who almost gave up a hundred times, but kept drawing anyway.

Together, Wulf and that sketchbook are my heart outside my body — reminders that even when the world said no, I said yes.

The biggest problem in my life right now is that Wulf and I don’t exactly fit into the world anymore. It’s one thing when people think you’re weird for wearing a fursuit — it’s a whole different game when the suit moves, breathes, and looks at them like a living thing. People get scared. They whisper. Some call it a trick, others call it unnatural. And the more they notice, the harder it gets to stay hidden.

I know deep down that sooner or later, someone’s going to come asking questions I can’t answer. Maybe it’ll be the police, maybe some corporation thinking they can “study” Wulf, maybe worse. I don’t know if I can protect him if that happens. I don’t know if I can even protect myself. Every day feels like balancing on a razor’s edge: chasing my dream, while knowing it could all fall apart the second the wrong person sees too much.

Most mornings, it’s the same quiet ritual. I wake up in the basement — not glamorous, but it’s home. The first thing I do is check on Wulf. Even if I know he’s fine, I can’t help it. Just seeing him standing there, breathing slow and steady, calms something in me. After that, I stumble into the tiny bathroom, splash some cold water on my face, and brush my teeth. Breakfast is whatever’s easy — usually cereal or toaster waffles — something quick so I can get back to work.

Before I leave the house, I spend a few minutes in front of the mirror, not fixing my hair or anything, just looking. Reminding myself: out there, I have to wear the mask of “normal Kyle.” Quiet. Harmless. Invisible. But underneath, Wulf is always with me. Always. Knowing that gives me the strength to step outside and face whatever the world’s got waiting.