My entire world changed in an instant. The last thing I remember is a blinding light. Everything else is pretty sketchy.
Where am I? How did I get here? It’s so dark I can’t see my hand in front of my face. “Somebody turn on a light. My name is Mitchell Patrick Westcott III, and I demand to be told where I am and why I’m here. You want money? How much? My father will pay your ransom. Just let me go.”
The blackness transforms into a dense gray fog that swirls around me. Light creeps in at the corners of my vision until a blurry picture takes shape. The moment my eyes adjust, my nightmare begins.
A huge dog stares down at me. At least, I think it’s a dog. It might be a pig. Others are here, but they’re much smaller and look more like puppies than pigs.
I’m not a dog person. Never have been, never will be. I squeeze my eyes shut and open them. The big one continues to stare. That’s one ugly dog. Either that dog is ten feet tall, or I’ve shrunk to the size of a baby squirrel. When I see the wrinkled ball of fur that has replaced my magnificent twenty-four-year-old body, I realize the latter is true.
I scream, but all that comes out is a little yip. What happened to my voice?
Everyone is staring.
Show’s over. Go on, get out of here.
The big dog, who appears to be in charge, licks me—yuck! She tells me it’s okay. But it isn’t. None of this is okay. It smells in here. I want to go home and throw back a couple of glasses of Macallan single malt. Clearly, that’s not going to happen.
I close my eyes. Concentrate, Mitch! I’m disoriented. This is a joke or a bad dream, or perhaps karma has a wicked sense of humor. Where was I before I woke up in this stinking cardboard box? Fuzzy images float through my mind like clouds in a summer sky. Focus!
I’m banging on a door. No one answers. Whose door is this? Why am I here? I’m upset. Banging and banging. A stranger stops me and says the tenant, Ashley, has moved out and left no forwarding address. He asks if my name is Mitch, and when I acknowledge, he hands me a letter. I tear it open.
It’s from Ashley. She says she’s sorry, but she needs to go. The last line says, please don’t try to find me.
I need more information, but the memory is fading. Wait. I’m in my car now. I’ve had a few drinks and I’m driving too fast. Then the light. Then darkness. Then THIS. One moment I’m a man, and the next I’m a… a dog? I let out a string of expletives that would make a truck driver blush.
I don’t know where my car is, and even if I could see over the dash and reach the pedals, I'd need opposable thumbs to hold the steering wheel. Obviously, I didn’t drive here. These stupid little paws at the end of my arms—do dogs even have arms?—are useless.
I struggle to walk on these things as I make my way to the farthest corner of the room, which isn’t a room at all but a cardboard box, and hunker down. The big dog follows me. She’s talking, but not talking. I hear her thoughts. It’s time to eat, she says and walks away.
I’m not a dog. I don’t belong here.
I’m hungry, but I can’t eat. I need time to think, to find a way out of this nightmare. Perhaps if I can remember how I got here, I can figure a way out.
Wait. I remember that name on the note—Ashley. We were dating. I used to go through women like a kid goes through crayons, but Ash was different. I thought she might be the one. I think she dumped me, but that’s impossible. Mitchell Patrick Westcott III is always the dumper, never the dumped.
The longer I sit, the stronger the ache in my stomach grows, but I don’t see any food. What do dogs eat? Ashley had a dog named Rufus, and he was a big, slobbering pain in the ass. I normally had a no-pet rule, but Ash was hot, so I made an exception. She must have fed him, but I never paid much attention to what he ate.
The big dog reclines, and the little ones rush toward her, climbing over one another to get a front-row seat. Four of them—a chaotic tangle of heads, feet, and fur, jockey for position.
I watch from my corner. What’s going on?
The one at the back of the scrum turns. Can’t talk now, time to eat.
Finally, some good news. I wait for someone to set a bowl of food in front of me. Rufus had a big bowl with his name on the side. I don’t know what was in it, but he seemed to like it. At this point, I’ll eat just about anything.
I wait. And wait. The service in this place is terrible.
Hey, dummy, one of them calls. You’d better get over here if you want to eat.
Dummy? I charge the pile and jump on his back. He throws me off, and I run back into the fray. As I bounce around like a furry ping-pong ball, I realize what’s going on. There are no bowls. You’ve got to be kidding me! The big dog is the food.
I wriggle my way out of the pile and watch the mayhem from a distance. This can’t be happening. I need some real food. There must be a way out of here. After a quick check of the perimeter turns up nothing, I get a running start and crash into the wall, hoping to break through.
After the third unsuccessful attempt, the big dog speaks. Stop that and come eat with the others.
I’m dizzy from smashing my head against the wall and can no longer ignore the pain in my stomach. I have a decision to make. Desperate times require desperate measures. Reluctantly, I wiggle my way to the front of the pile, close my eyes, and suck.
The process feels surprisingly natural. The warm liquid tastes sweet and soothes the ache in my stomach. Mitch had certainly ingested worse things.
After I have my fill, I stagger away, feeling somewhat intoxicated. I return to my corner and recline. The others mingle, but I’m not ready to embrace the puppy life. Whoever said “happiness is a warm puppy” probably didn’t live in a box with them.
I study the furry mass that’s replaced my body and stick my head down between my hind legs, something I could never do until today. How had I not noticed this before? A dog’s private parts aren’t very private. I guess I just assumed they would be there.
And the hits just keep on coming. As if becoming a dog wasn’t bad enough, I had become a female dog.
