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Catherine Booker sighed. Dogsitting! There was so much she could be doing right now, but ZeZe had rightly pointed out that she owed her. The young Zimbabwean woman had three dogs, which was pretty unusual for someone who immigrated from Africa. There, Catherine assumed, dogs were more like cattle that were cute for a few years.

But ZeZe had vouched for her in a trade deal with a company in her home country. That woman had surprising connections. Catherine could only guess what had caused her to leave. Perhaps even the most powerful people in Zimbabwe were being held back by the financial collapse. In less than a year, their currency had printed 10 dollar notes, and 100 billion dollar notes, and they'd decided to drop 12 zeros from the end of every bill.

So the well-kept, stocky, middle-aged woman found herself in ZeZe's home for the weekend, while the woman was on a business trip of her own. The house was surprisingly modern, though she did find some tribal-looking decorations. Masks and beads. Catherine plopped down on the couch, too afraid to get out her laptop and work with the three, big dogs.

ZeZe had a malamute named Rufaro who was very vocal, and two Rhodesian Ridgebacks, funny looking brown dogs with a stripe of hair going up their backs the opposite way. The male, Tendai, was just over two feet tall at the shoulder and looked about 80 pounds, while the female, Chipo, was smaller. They looked a lot like chocolate labs, with slightly dark faces, but they were a pain in the ass to pet with the backward hair on their backs. Rufaro was a lot bigger of course, and just a year old. Catherine had immediately noticed that the males were still intact. Don't they know you're supposed to get your dogs neutered?

“And you're in heat," she signed, glancing over at Chipo, who was in a nearby kennel. ZeZe was looking to breed the Ridgebacks, but the time wasn't quite right. She'd breed them with supervision in three days, when she got back, so Catherine had double duty: take care of the dogs and walk them, and make sure that Rufaro and Tendai didn't get at her too early. Especially Rufaro.

The males were stir-crazy, bouncing around, eager, tails wagging like blunt weapons, and though Catherine had a report to write, she didn't dare put her precious laptop anywhere the dogs might leap, kick, or crash on.

“Shut up!" she yelled at Rufaro, who kept wailing at Chipo. The tone came across, but she had to glance at the sheet to figure out how to say “No!" in Shona. The dogs only knew ZeZe's first language, which made controlling them that much harder.

The best she could manage was to watch T.V. on ZeZe's big screen, waiting until it was the next time to walk the dogs. She had to walk them separately, of course. Thankfully, there were gates set up at every entrance, so she could put the males behind a gate before letting Chipo out. They wouldn't last a concerted assault by the dogs, but they were more than enough to get her and Chipo out safely onto the street.

The time had come, yet again. Standing slowly, she walked into ZeZe's bedroom, and the males followed excitedly. Too stupid to realize the pattern. She darted back through the gate and latched it, leaving the boys whining and scratching. Catherine ran over to the kennel and let Chipo out, attaching a leash to her collar and racing the for the door. Thankfully, the gate held once again. She suspected the dogs stopped pushing at the gate once the target of their interest was gone.

“So fucking hot," Catherine groaned. There was a heat wave going on in San Francisco, which was unusual for the climate. Temps were in the 100s, but at least it was a dry heat. Add to that the steep hills and dodging trolley cars, and walking the dogs was quite a workout. Even worse when she had to control both males, especially since Rufaro liked to pull her along. The hundred-and-fifty pound puppy was quite the handful.

Walking Chipo was much more leisurely, though the Ridgeback got quite a few looks from passing dogs. Catherine smiled to realize that she, too, was getting some looks from the dog-walkers. She looked pretty snappy in her business casual skirt and blouse. Thank God shoulderpads were out of fashion, they made her look like a block of cheese. She'd always wanted to get her weight below 130, but she looked pretty fine at 150. Some guys liked a little meat on her bones.

Not that she had time for men. Her job kept her pretty busy, and a boyfriend would just be a distraction. And not many men liked a girl who made more money than they did. She had to find a relaxed, Silicon Valley programmer or something, who had enough on their own plate to give her distance but made even more than she did.

“It's so much simpler for you," she told Chipo, who just wagged her tail, her droopy ears flopping back and forth.

When she got back, she was as thirsty as hell, so Catherine paused in the kitchen with Chipo. She could hear the males pounding at the gate, but there was another gate in the kitchen, so she didn't bother putting Chipo away quite yet. The horny bitch was scratching from her end, too, trying to get to the males.

Catherine opened the fridge, looking for something...anything to drink. She wasn't a fan of tap water, and with all the lead problems in city water supplies, she didn't trust it. Apparently ZeZe felt differently (perhaps the water was even worse in Zimbabwe) as there were no drinks in the fridge at all. Well, except one.

“Jackpot!" Catherine said, finding a little bottle of what looked like vitamin water. Not the brand name stuff filled with corn syrup, but some sort of health water. Opening the home-made cork, she sniffed it. Smelled strong, but not sweet. She didn't need the empty calories, and she wanted any cold liquid she could pour down her throat. She gave it one more once over to make sure it wasn't some sort of Zimbabwean witch-doctor thing (thankfully, it was Polish, and the labelling, ironically, was polished) and took a big gulp.

“Ick," she said, instantly popping the cork back in. It had a strange aftertaste, but perhaps that was because the selection of key, Polish organics. She went straight to the sink to pour a glass of tap water. A little lead was worth it to get the taste out of her mouth.

She never got that far. She groaned when she tripped over Chipo, dropping the water tonic on the floor, reaching down to push the Ridgeback out of the way. But when she started toward the sink again, her steps started to fail her.

“Heart attack!" she gasped. How was that possible? She ran the treadmill for thirty minutes every other day, like her doctor said. She stayed away from red meat!

No, that wasn't it. Maybe she was allergic to something in that health tonic? She fell to her knees, feeling woozy and...loose...like her whole body wasn't responding right. That's when she noticed the most concerning thing:

She was growing hair.

Not from her head, but along her arms, even the back of her hands...and fingers! And it wasn't her blonde hair, either, but a rich brown, kind of like Chipo's fur. That...wasn't a coincidence. Catherine squealed in horror as her hands started to stretch and reform, her fingers curling inward into a tight fist before her nails grew, turning black and sharp.

Catherine was no idiot. Her hands were developing pads that looked just like Chipo's paws. She was, as ridiculous as it sounded, turning into a Rhodesian Ridgeback! That tonic wasn't a health potion at all - ZeZe was a witch!

The woman was in shock, but she realized her blouse was going to get very uncomfortable, very quick. While her arms could still bend and rotate in circles, she ripped the buttons and flung her blouse off, kicking off her shoes even as her feet started to elongate, and her thighs and calves began to shrink.

Well, I think I've just come across the most powerful weight loss drug in the world… she mused, as she continued to shrink. The skirt was less of a problem, so she focused on removing her socks and necklace (given to her from her mother). Was this some elaborate trick to get her here? Would ZeZe burst into the room, cackling about how she had another dog to call her own?

In no time, the transformation was complete, Catherine staring down her long, brown muzzle, standing in a pile of clothes. She was still wearing her pleated skirt, the elastic a little loose around her midsection, but aside from that, she was just a carbon copy of Chipo.

“Fuck," she said, simply, but it came out as a bark.

No sign of ZeZe, but Catherine heard a loud crash! as the first gate collapsed under the weight of the malamute. Rufaro and Tendai burst into the living room, immediately dashing over to the kitchen gate to find not one, but two Chipos waiting for them.

“FUCK!" she barked again, realizing that there was no way that gate would last, and then they'd be in on Chipo.

And me, she realized. And if Chipo was in heat…

Am I?

What should she do (ordered most likely to least likely to succeed)?

A) When the males break down the gate, run for Chipo's kennel and close herself in.

B) Reinforce the gate with whatever she can: trash cans, recycling bins, her own body.

C) Protect Chipo at all costs – if she's going to get out of this, she needs ZeZe on her side.

* * * * *

Antonio Lorri sat alone, on his back porch, yet again. The eighteen-year-old spent most evenings, even Friday evenings, this way. It's not that he didn't have friends. It's just that all of his friends were developmentally disabled. Their parents always kept their kids home after 9:00 P.M. because they were overprotective.

Not that he really wanted to spend more time with them. Even Domica Salazar, who had Down Syndrome, just wasn't that interesting to talk to. The others, at various levels in the autism spectrum, were just plain weird.

Antonio grabbed another pepsi from the cooler, nudging the control on his wheelchair to spin and move forward. He slid the chair right up against the cooler so that he wouldn't have to reach very far, but still his hand fumbled the can. He closed his palm around it, fingers shaking. Taking a deep breath, he tried to relax, managing to lift the can to his wheelchair's cup holder.

He span back around to look out at the backyard again, struggling to pop the tab. When he finally heard the refreshing “psssshhh" he was exhausted.

“F-fuuck the-isz."

He took a drink, a practiced motion that wasn't as choppy. Watching the rabbits eat the last bit of grass before they huddled off into their dens. One time, he saw a fox. But he always hoped to see deer. Just watching the way they moved, so effortlessly, so smoothly - they could swivel their ears as easily as he could swivel his chair.

The other kids were all on their phones, tapping away, or playing video games, or going out to drink illegally, and none of those things were things that Antonio could do. He talked in a slurred voice, he trembled, he was poor, and Mexican, and none of this worked out to get him friends. But the worst thing was that unlike the other kids in his special education system, his brain was fine. He was quick, and clever, and could read quickly, and could tell when other kids were struggling in class.

But no one knew it, aside from his parents and the teachers. He saw the way the kids looked at him. Did they know what Ataxic Cerebral Palsy was? No, and they didn't care. He couldn't move well or speak, so he must be a retard. Nevermind that Antonio got straight A's. What else was there to do but read and learn? The jokes and jabs were as unimpressive as they were juvenile, but that wasn't what really hurt.

He glanced to his left, and his neighbor's house. Angela Nelson, a blonde, thin, cheerleader, he'd had a crush on since he was five. She was the one that hurt the worst, but not because she was a bitch.

“Oh, Antonio, how are you doing today?" she would ask, in her saccharine voice. “Do you need any help carrying your books?"

“N-no, Ang -"

“Your birthday was last week, right? Did you get any cool Star Wars stuff? I know you love Star Wars," she interrupted.

He liked Star Wars fine, for an eighteen-year-old. He liked to imagine he had the Force, and suddenly everything that came hard for him would come easy. But he hadn't been crazy about it since he was twelve. “Noh, I d-don' haaf p-pardz ennymoa."

“No parties!? That's sad. I love parties," she replied with cloying pitch.

Before he could explain to Angela that he was not, in fact, a twelve-year-old, she was gone, off to her next class. That was the worst. By all accounts Angela was a nice girl, who did in fact enjoy parties (she was at one right now as far as Antonio knew), but she thought he was a child. She assumed because he had difficulty speaking that he was years behind in mental development, and she'd never bothered to find out that she was wrong. After years of living next door. She basically saw nothing when she looked at him, and certainly not a boyfriend.

“Sh-idt!" he grunted, one of his best words, as the can fell from his grasp and landed sideways on the ground. He looked around for his parents, but they were already upstairs in bed. The can was leaking onto the wooden deck, but it was weather-stained. Groaning, he ignored the can and spun back around to the cooler for another drink.

Glancing down, he groaned. That was the last Pepsi. There were some Diet Cokes (his mother swore by Coke), and a Sanpellegrino (so gross), and bottled water. Why would he drink water? Then something caught his glance he'd never seen before. A glass bottle with a cork in it. Reaching down, he found it surprisingly easy to wrap his fingers around the tapered tip of the bottle, hefting it up to read it.

“P-polishhh…" Vitamin Water. He didn't bother to read the whole name out loud, reading it quickly. Supposed to help his skin? He wondered how it would taste, and if his mother had bought it in the vain hope that it would cure his Cerebral Palsy. “O-oh wel…" he stammered, gripping the cork and twisting it off.

Might as well try it.

Or might as well not! As soon as he tipped half-an-ounce down his throat, he regretted it. He resisted the urge to toss the bottle, knowing that he wouldn't get it more than a few feet. Instead, he corked it gently and tossed it back in the cooler. It tasted like crap.

Antonio sat there, gazing out at the forest, the sun finally dipping below the horizon. It should have been relaxing, but he felt like he was in a prison. His chair may grant him mobility far beyond his ability to walk with crutches, but it closed so many more doors for him. It...just...wasn't...fair.

He wanted - no, needed - to see a deer, peering into the milky darkness between the trees. Even though he envied them their simplicity and grace, he felt relaxed to see them. At least something in the world was truly free. He blinked - was that one?

Creeeaaaak!

His eyes darted to the sound, the fence to his left. The Nelson's dog, Cramer, was digging at the fence posts again! He was wedging himself into the Lorri's yard by pushing the weakened fence post up.

“H-hey! gggGet...back!" he shouted, but the dog didn't ever seem to respect him, or anyone other than Angela. He looked straight out of Lady and the Tramp, the gray dog with the beard, just a little stockier.

And that's when it started to happen. Antonio coughed, and his already stilted speech was as good as gone. He tried to call for his mother, for his father, for anyone, but his throat was closed up. He thought he should be choking, but he could still breath through his nose. He lost control of himself, hunching forward in his chair, his bones starting to churn.

“Waaaaagh!" he groaned, startling Cramer, who barked at him.

Somehow, his shirt crept up and covered his head, and everything was dark while he struggled limply. He could feel it all - the tingling, the crunching, his face swelling out, and he knew that he was finally going to die.

It's not so bad, he realized.

But when the strange sensations stopped, he wasn't dead, and he wasn't even in pain. He was a little stuffy, his nose pressed right up against his clothing. Struggling again, he managed to push the shift off with just his head, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the...daylight?

I thought the sun went down!

The forest was as bright as it ever had been, and he could see several trees deep into the gnarled wood. The sky was a dim blue, and the brown house seemed oddly yellow. Then he noticed the giant, gray fur in front of his face.

Yelp!

Why did I yelp?

He was seated in his wheelchair, but it seemed so much bigger, like he'd shrunk half his weight. Looking down, he only saw more gray fur, then, down his belly, he saw his oversized pants hanging loosely around his warped hips. Startled, he leapt from the chair, leaving his clothing behind as he landed flat on his face in the grass.

Holy fuck, I'm a dog.

Everything he could see about himself confirmed it. He lifted a wiry hind leg to see his crotch, and instead of his familiar, brown skin and floppy dick, he had a light-gray furred little sheath and two enormous, hairy balls. He looked up, startled to find Cramer just inches away, now as big as he was!

No, Antonio was as small as Cramer. They were exactly the same height, with the same fur, and the same half-propped gray ears, except that Cramer's mouth was curled up in a toothy growl.

Oh, shit!

Antonio had to jump back to avoid an angry snap from the neighbor's dog.

“Hey, can't we talk about this?" he said quickly, but it came out as yips and barks. Cramer looked unimpressed by this display, leaping forward with his stubby tail held aloft.

Antonio didn't think, he just backed up, hind legs pedaling as he recoiled from the snap of jaws. Hopping backward, he suddenly went thwack right into the fence.

“Fuck!" he barked, backed into a corner against the aggressive dog. A quick sideways glance showed the teenager what he needed to see - the half-open fence post that Cramer had sneaked through. Well, if one medium-sized grey Schnauzer had made it through, another could!

Darting in a q uick circle, he dove headfirst into the gap, spinning to reach out with a paw to tug the post back into place. He barely pulled his paw back before Cramer slammed into the fence post, snapping it shut. There was no way that dog would be able to climb back through the other way.

Antonio took a deep breath, heart racing. This is too much…

That's when he realized what he'd just done. Quick as a wink, he'd scrambled backward, slid through a small hole and closed it behind him, all things he'd never been able to do before. Come to think of it, when he barked and yipped, it may not mean much, but it came out crisp and clear, with no stuttering.

Immediately, he began to run in a circle around the yard, astounded by his sheer athleticism. He was in a world of scents and sounds, though he had to admit the grass looked vaguely yellow. Unbelievable!

It had to be the vitamin water. That was the only change in his routine. Somehow, drinking that, and seeing Cramer...had…

Turned me into a dog.

He paused, panting instinctively. What if this was permanent? In some sense, would that be so bad? But no, as much fun as it was to move around freely, the life of a dog was not something he wanted. But if he did turn back, what would people say when they found him curled up, naked in his neighbor's yard, 25 feet from his wheelchair?

A quick glance and Antonio realized that he wasn't going to be getting out of the backyard without a lot of digging, unless he wanted to brave Cramer. He had to do something, however, and -

Headlights. A car was pulling in, and he didn't need his perked up dog's ears to hear Angela talking on the phone as she walked into the house. “The party was so lame…"

She was home! He was stuck in her yard! What could he do?

What should he do (ordered most likely to least likely to succeed)?

A) Pose as Cramer and look for a chance to escape.

B) Try to make friends with Cramer and sneak back through the fence.

C) Try to convince Angela that you're not a dog!

* * * * *

Jody Yi tucked her long, black bangs behind her ears, looking herself over in the mirror. Not enough cleavage, she decided. She perked up her large bosom to accentuate it, sliding on her long, mesh stockings. A little goth, a little steampunk, anything so that the first thing people noticed about her wasn't that she was a fat asian chick.

It never worked.

“I didn't know Asians could even be overweight!" was a common statement.

“Want some pork buns?"

“I guess it's true what they say, you can eat a ton of chinese food and still feel hungry."

Never mind that she was South Korean.

She would never be accepted for who she was, not by the Californians she went to college with, and not by the Korean American community - she couldn't speak Korean, she wasn't interested in that stuff, and yes, she was obese. So she hung out with another clique of outcasts: gamers.

Jody was the epitome of the cool girl, drinking beers and no-scoping headshots, making raucous, sexist jokes and obliterating fools with her resting, Asian bitch face. She pretended her weight didn't bother her, pretended she didn't wear make-up (just a little to accentuate her eyelashes), and when asked, explained that she was naturally smooth skinned (she shaved her legs every day).

Today was another LAN party at Occidental College in L.A. and this time, she was hoping one of the guys would lower their standards enough to ask her out. They all said she was awesome to hang out with, and really fun, but even the fat, neck-bearded anti-socialites didn't want her in that way. Perhaps the slutty outfit would help.

When she got there, twenty minutes early, seven guys had already set up their rigs. She carried her gaming laptop over to the middle table to stand out more in the crowd, and started chatting up some of the regulars. She knew them pretty well, though a few new faces showed up every week. She always feigned interest in their hardware (computer and otherwise), flirted, and acted like a dumb broad - anything to remind them that she did, in fact, have a vagina.

She had a few of the more awkward guys actually talking to her, now, and not stuttering. She wanted to ask one guy out, in particular, a stocky brogrammer who had a polite smile and a Mountain Dew at all times. But if Andy said, “no," that might spoil her to the entire group of guys. He was one of the lynchpin friends, that everyone liked. If things got awkward with Andy, she wasn't going to be welcome here again. Then she might have to become a Pegasister!

“Been brushing up on your CS:GO?" Jody asked him.

Andy just shrugged. “Not really. Too busy watching Starcraft tournaments. Man, I wish I could play SC2, but it's just too much for me. They're doing like 500 actions per second!"

“You're never going to beat me if you don't try," she said, suggestively.

“FPS just isn't my genre," he said, smiling. “You should try a MOBA, sometime."

“I could never get into DOTA," she sighed. She could get into them, maybe, but she was terrible. She couldn't reinforce the idea that girls were terrible at games, so she stuck to what she was good at.

Not that she was the best FPSer out there. That honor belonged to Victor Cartwright, a curly-haired white dude with the biggest mouth. He was the de facto voice of the LAN club, if only because he was the loudest and most talkative. He liked to brag - a lot. About his computer, about his mad skillz, about his myriad of (made up, as far she could tell) girlfriends. During a match, he was a motor-mouth of sick burns and racist slurs, and Jody had talked to more than one nerd privately who agreed that he was a total douchebag.

But how do you get rid of a guy like that? No one else had the strength of personality to confront the asshole. Most of the guys were phobic to confrontation. And besides, the whole point of the gamer group was to be accepting to everyone. They couldn't very well turn Victor away. Any time she took a jab at Victor he just laughed it off like it was just playful smack talk.

Victor, predictably, showed up beside her, sneering at her computer. “When are you gonna get a real computer, Jodes?"

“I already beat you on this thing. Didn't know you were a glutton for punishment."

“Eh, at least I'm not a glutton for food. You better bring your A game today."

Jody put her hands on her hips, emphasizing her expansive bosom. “Just more cushion for the pushin', Victor." She saw that his eyes darted to her cleavage, as usual. Well, at least the bra was doing the trick, even if it was for this asshole.

Jody didn't actually beat Victor. Not typically, and not that day. She was reliably on the opposite team from him, thanks to the matchmaker, but she was, as usual, the second best. Victor was just a little bit faster, and he always put her on tilt with his taunts and jabs. She had to wonder if it really was his water-cooled monstrosity that was giving him the edge. The rest of her team kept making stupid mistakes, and there was no way one person could carry the whole team.

But she did score one impressive head-shot. She sniped Victor while he was still aiming down the sights at her. “Got your head, Victor," she taunted gleefully, defusing the bomb and saving the round.

“Girls are supposed to give head, not shoot them," he fired back.

“You wish!" she laughed back, though she was gritting her teeth.

Sadly, that was an outlier as again and again and again, Victor and his team systematically crushed their opposition. One of his favorite tactics was to bait his teammates. He'd let them go around first, get slaughtered by Jody, and then he'd hop around and shoot her while she was reloading.

“One on one, Victor," she said. “Don't be a pussy."

“Oh really? You want to go mano y mano? I'm game."

That wasn't what she meant, but there was no turning back now. Soon, the whole LAN party was watching and waiting as Jody spawned CT and Victor spawned T in a one on one deathmatch.

“What're the stakes?" Jody asked.

“Let's make it win-win for ya, Jodes. If you win, I'll get you a respectable, wired mouse," he started, which was fair. Her mouse was always a little twitchy at the worst moments. He leered over at her to add, “And if I win, I'll give you what you really want."

“Fat chance," Jody said, and everyone groaned at her joke. “You're on!"

Jody wished she could say she held her own, but in a one on one setting, Victor edged her out easily. Again and again he'd get the drop on her, either by hiding, or jumping out and strafing so quickly that she missed, or by simply sniping her in the chest. At the end of series, she'd only won twice of fifteen.

That seemed to mark the end of the LAN party. It was already 1 A.M. and there was school the next day. She bristled even though many of her friends tried their best to console her. She just waited there, not bothering to pack up, waiting for the gloating goon to wander over.

And of course he did. “Hey, we can't win them all. Sometimes we can only win two."

“Shut up, Victor."

“Honestly, you did better than I expected!" he said in a way that wasn't honest whatsoever.

She stood up, bristling. “Thanks," she said, her voice dripping.

“Look, I mean it," Victor said, following her as she walked away from him, tired of listening to his bullshit.

“Sure you do. I went 2 and 13," she said, heading for the only place she knew she could get away from him - the women's restroom.

“God, can't you take a compliment?

“No, Victor," she said, stopping at the door to the restroom. “I can't. I guess I'm just a bitch on her period." She closed the door on him, walking over to the sinks.

The door swung open and Victor walked in.

“Victor!" she said, exasperated.

The door swung closed behind him. “Come on, Jodes, let me apologize."

“Get out of here. I don't want your apology."

“C'mon, you owe me that much," he insisted, stepping forward.

Jody didn't think he was going to take a hint. He was in the girls' bathroom for Christs' sake. Sighing, she said, “Fine, go ahead."

“I know I give you a lot of shit, Jody, but I don't really mean it. I mean, I kinda like you," he explained, as if making a great personal sacrifice.

“Yeah?" she said, crossing her arms beneath her breasts. She didn't like how he penetrated her last refuge from this crap.

“You're the second best, for real. What do you say I get you that mouse anyway? You might even beat me with it."

“I don't want your money, Victor."

“It's a gift, please, I insist."

Jody sighed. If it would get him off her back, maybe it was worth it just to accept. She did need a new mouse, and money was a bit tight. “Fine, sure, whatever."

“I could show you a few pointers, too, if you want to up your game."

“I'm a little too busy with school to be focusing on this, okay?" she said flatly.

“Wow, you are on your period, aren't you?" he joked, stepping forward again. She stepped backward. He said, “Remember the bet? How about I give you what you really need…"

“No."

“Oh, come on. You should be flattered. You aren't really my 'type'," he said stepping forward again.

Jody took another step back, running into the sinks. “This isn't funny," she gasped.

But Victor grabbed her wrist and he waist, pulling himself up against her. Jody dropped her jaw, feeling his erection pressing up against her stomach. She realized a moment before he confirmed it: “This isn't a joke."

A thousand impulses jolted through her brain at once, but what should she do? She had to act, and act now.

What should she do (ordered most likely to least likely to succeed)?

A) Beg him to stop.

B) Run away.

C) Fight back.