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[b]Post-Mutatem[/b]

By: DankeDonuts

https://dankedonuts.sofurry.com/

I didn’t pay that much attention to the transformation itself, to be honest. I just sort of focused on the empty plate in front of me. It’s like getting your tooth pulled. Your brain wants to go somewhere else. I’ve never had a tattoo.

The plate, like I said was empty. All that remained of the sausage I’d just consumed was a few lines of grease, shining atop the stoneware. Which was stained a grey-red, the eyes circled with the silhouette of ducks in flight. Those where was I was looking at, as my nose darkened and pressed forward, followed by my upper jaw. My new muzzled occluded more of my vision, and sprouted auburn hair. But I wasn’t thinking about that. I was looking at the ducks. Long and close enough to appreciate that each had been hand-painted, not stamped.

But I was oddly aware of when I was done changing. There’d been a tingling in my skin that I hadn’t noticed until it was gone.

The first thing I noticed what the smell. The sausage was gone, of course. That’s where they’d put the Catalyst. But all of a sudden it smelled like it was practically still there on the plate, so strong was it’s resonance. A ghost-sausage, rising up from a smear of fatty fluids. Full and fat and wanting to be devoured all over again.

More and more scents approached me with each intake of breath. I could smell the varnish on the wooden walls. The age on the freshly-dusted deer’s head mounted to the far one.

They give you plenty of options of where to undergo the change, the House Of Pets. Different kinds of rooms to spend your last moment as a human (for the foreseeable future). I wanted something rustic. A hunting cabin. It wasn’t a real cabin, mind, just a small approximation of one. A small round dining table in the middle, where only moments ago I was sitting. Sink and cooking area to the left. Unlit fireplace below the deer’s head. To my right, there a plush armchair guarded the door to the real world. Behind me, a gun rack and fishing gear beside a closed bedroom door. The salt and pepper shakers in the middle of the table, untouched, were practically shouting at me, they were so pungent.

I could tell that armchair was genuine leather, and the pale blue robe I was wearing was not genuine wool. It was artificial, somehow, like the shakers. I couldn’t quite say how I knew that. One just smelled more ‘lived in’ and the other didn’t.

The second thing noted, for all my looking around, was how dulled some of the colors around me become, having lost some of their warmth. And how much clearer the shadows were. Nothing within them was hidden from me. Not the discarded duck call under the leather chair, nor the box of ammo secreted in the spice rack above the sink.

The sounds filling my ears were the next to draw my attention. Or, rather, those not filling them; the bedroom door had no air flowing back or forth in the space under the wood. Only the door I’d come through actually went anywhere. The fireplace was equally silent. The flu was either tightly closed, or it was a pretty lie, as well.

My ears… They were long and low. And bent! No, they were curving over my shoulders where they’d flowed down onto them. Furry waterfalls! I touched -- I pawed -- them up and down! Touching out the length of them, finding the barrier between hairy backs and fur-free fronts. And from them, feeling the nick of long, uncut claws. The of thick fingerpads.

My hands! They were… a Dog’s hands. Short, stubby fingers of auburn. Black pads. The hint of peach-white claws peeking out from the forest of fur.

I had to see myself! Another scan of the room revealed no mirror, and I knew what door not to go through. All there was the bowl and it’s thick, ceramic glaze. Stunted hands brought it up high. There was an Irish Setter staring back at me. Bright grey eyes, the ones that had always been mine, were alight with victory and joy! His nose was bright and damp. His tongue -- my tongue -- that was lolling partly out to one side. The ghost-sausage smelled so appetizing!

I licked up every remaining drop of flavor.

I dared next to undo the belt of my robe. A sea of hair bunched up in my lap fell forth, tumbling down to gravity’s call. My paws had to wade through it all to find my groin. And when it did, I found a certain appendage was now hidden away within a hair-covered sheath. This, at last, made me pause in my explorations of this new world, this new self. Sure, I had known to expect this. But when the part of you that defines you as a man up and becomes something else, even slightly, you’re going to stop and think about where your decisions have led you.

I came to the decision that while I was still [i]male[/i], I wasn’t a [i]man[/i] anymore. I was a Dog who walked about on two legs. Legs that got up off the chair. My belly-shag slid even lower down for the effort, tugging the skin it was attached to with it. Not much, but enough that every step -- clumsy ones, all of them on tiptoe -- was echoed around my belly by the red sway.

I paced halfway about the table. Naked toes picking out every flaw in the floor. I walked on, teaching myself how to move with my heels eight inches or so off the ground. I met my tail in those first lurching steps. Much as I could with it still held back behind the false-smelling robe.

On I walked. A lap. Two. Three. Three and a half, before something that at first was less than a trifle slowly picked its way to the forefront of my attention.

The armchair. Someone had been [i]sitting in that chair[/i] not long ago. Not me, as I’d gone straight to the table. Exactly how long ago, I couldn’t say. Nor I couldn’t place who exactly it had been, but it was [i]so close[/i] to revealing itself. Like a name at the tip of the tongue you can’t quite recall but when you hear it next will be screamingly obvious. How could I have not noticed before? Maybe I had, but had too many other things nagging at my mind to notice.

The scent -- I suppose I’m abusing that word, but I hesitate to use the word ‘odor,’ as that word implies nuisance over mystery -- had entrapped my curiosity. I approached the chair and knelt down beside it. But I couldn’t place it. It occurred to me than that, in the course of my training up to that point, I’d known that becoming a Setter would bring with it increased facilities of smell, and I’d expected to be overwhelmed by it. In that moment, though, amid the cloud of scents swirling about me, I was calm as the center of a storm. I liken it now to walking about in an art museum. Surrounded by sights, perhaps not understanding them all as anything but a kind of ‘noise,’ but far from being made to run from it all. Everything just there, just waiting for you to come and figure it out. One at a time.

This, this smell in the chair, I wanted to figure it out. I sniff at it as an animal would, as a Dog would. Up close and personal, and all around. Fast, furtive sniffs. The wind of each exhalation bouncing back at me, carrying more information. Information without a guide. More and more of no help at all.

I heard the feet coming well before they reached the door. It opened, and the first thing I noticed was an increase in the smell around the chair. This was the man who’d been sitting there. He was tall, and smooth-faced, and his clothes smelled as though he’d just been near a horse. His name was Leon. But for all intents and purposes, for the next several days or weeks, his name was Master.

A dark green collar dangled from leash in his hand.

“Lasair, heel!” was all he said at first, and he said it with true authority. Authority over me, over a Dog in his care. I admit to feeling a bit of shame to be spoken to that way. But, hey, that’s the game I signed on to play. Play I did. My tail didn’t know it was supposed to be curled low and between my legs to show submission. And I didn’t know -- yet -- how to make it do so. It batted against my legs and the folds of my robe as I shuffled over.

His aftershave was awful up close. Too smelly. Too much. He pulled the robe off of me, put the leash on. I knew I’d never get away from the smell of aftershave, then, until he decided to let me.

“Good boy!” Master’s smile was broad, if a little theatrical. He pulled from a pocket a small treat, a hard biscuit shaped like a bone. Which I scooped out of his hand with my tongue. Ten minutes prior, I might have called it bland. Now, there were subtle notes aplenty, and a robust aftertaste to ponder.

The only other thing he said to me, before tugging on the leash in the direction of the facility campus was, “Time for you first lesson at Obedience School.”

In that moment, everything came together. All of these new sensations I was feeling, they felt [i]right[/i].

I happily let myself be led into my new life.