Paws on Love

By Jennifer Crowfoot

Somewhere in suburban Australia, lived a playful Daschund named Wazza. Just an average little dog, he loved laying in his owner's garden, digging up her plants and barking at, well, everything.
He was content.
Until the night he chased the cat from next door back home, before bravely following.
That ordinary doggy deed was his downfall, because unbeknown to him, the cat was owned by a certain Mister Merlin, who took offence at the terrorising of his cat, and promptly lost his temper.
A terrified Wazza fled for home, tail between his legs, only to wake up the next morning in the flower garden as a naked man.
As it turned out, the cat he'd chased was not all she appeared to be either, magic had touched and changed her life as well. But, in another dreadful decision, not understanding the draw to her but also not fighting it, Wazza fell head over heels for her.
A turn of events which didn't end quite the way he'd hoped.
Life as a human male was not as easy as Wazza had hoped, there were so many complicating hurdles to overcome.
Clothe yourself. Feed yourself. Find shelter. Make friends. Get a job.
And being in love with a magical female was his biggest hurdle of all, as he had ancient and powerful competition.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jennifer Crowfoot
• Release date: Mar 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005329372

Jennifer Crowfoot

Married, Jennifer lives with her husband and her spoilt, feline fur-baby, Hades, in beautiful rural N.S.W, Australia.When not writing, Jennifer can be found with her nose buried in a book.She also has a collection of self-published books on Amazon.? ? ?

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Wazza

DIPPING MY NOSE to the ground, I trot through the short grass, my rear end wriggling as I follow the stinking scent of my new enemy, the cat from next door. The grass thins, my nose meeting dirt when I reach the fenced boundary of my human’s land.

Raising my eyes, I peer through a gap in-between the wood to see it sitting on a pile of dirt and weeds, watching me as it grooms itself.

Pausing, its head raises, its nose crinkles and its whiskers arrow out from its ugly head as it hisses. Pointy teeth glitter in the sunshine.

My body lengthens as I stiffen.

My whippy tail shoots skyward, and pulling my lips back over my own superior teeth, I growl. Long, low and menacing.

I’m cranky, and my growl – which I’m very proud of - shows I mean business.

Its long tail flicks as it spits and flashes a curved and fully-armed paw at me.

Putting more effort into it, I growl harder, the short hairs along my spine rising in irritation.

The back-door slams shut and although I keep my eyes on the cat, my growls soften as my attention is torn. Beneath the delicious scent of meat which exits from the kennel behind her, I smell the comforting smell of my human. Despite my anger over the cat’s behaviour towards me, the tip of my tail begins to sway with excitement at seeing her.

And at the prospect of food.

I haven’t had my breakfast yet and my belly’s grumbling.

My human’s hindleg paws click-clack across the cement as she makes her way down the foolpath towards me.

She’s so clever to be able to walk on her hind legs like that.

I can’t even do that, and I’m the cleverest dog in the street.

My nose twitches. She smells like the pretty flowers I like to lay in. Sweet. Fresh.

She calls out and my ears wriggle as I listen to her bird-voice tweet, Wazza. Blah, blah, blah. Merf, merf, merf.

I don’t want to look away from the sneaky cat in case it decides to leap over the fence, jump on my back and shred my soft skin to ribbons with its sharp claws. A horrible sensation I’ve experienced on occasion with other cats, and one I’m in no particular rush to have repeated. Their claws sting like the vicious little ants which nest in my favourite sleeping area, their sole purpose in life, from what I can understand, is to repeatedly bite me.

My human calls out again, repeating herself.

What I hear as I release one last aggressive growl and turn away from the cat, giving it my winking arsehole is, Wazza. Where’s my clever boy?

Grrrr. Woof-Woof. I end the discussion, and feeling pretty good about myself I trot away, my paws sinking into the lush, cool grass. From behind my wriggling black arse and proudly swishing tail, I hear it snarl in reaction to my threat to chew its head off if it comes into my yard again.

I told it good that time, I think, giving my tail an extra strong waggle just for show. Pausing, when my front claws connect with the hard pathway, I flop my tongue out in happy greetings, pant and just play it cool while I let my human come to me.

No sense after my big show of toughness to let on that I’m a total sook.

Blah, blah, blah. Yamma, yamma, yamma, my human croons in her strange bark, as she crouches down and pets my head.

Ruffles my floppy ears with tender touches.

What I hear out of all that gibberish is, My, you’re such a handsome boy. So clever and smart. And brave.

I agree with her sentiments, but give her wrist a gentle lick in thanks anyway. Yum, her closed hand smells good.

Opening the hand in question, she places a chunk of meat down on the path in front of me and with one last pat, rises to her hindlegs and walks off, disappearing into her own kennel.

I sniff at the meat, drool dripping off my tongue as I do.

I give it a possessive lick so my human can’t return and decide she wants this delicious meaty-treat back.

I’ve marked it.

So therefore, by the laws of dog, it’s all mine.

* * *

CHAPTER WOOF ONE

TODAY IS THE first day of my strange and confusing new life. And it all started with the scent of a putrid ham bone nudging me from my slumber. To my discerning nose, that scent’s….

The smell of pure happiness.

Of pangs of hunger, sated.

It’s those satisfying scratches on the base of your tail, when you find that special low-hanging branch that with a few passes manages to scatter those pesky fleas just so with stiff little wooden fingers. So much better than a twisted-body, scrabbling claws on slippery surfaces to get some purchase, whilst you go at your own flesh with snapping front teeth.

It’s the wide-eyes and friendly blah-blah-blah of the strange-two-legged animals — the humans — accompanied by brisk pats on the head.

It’s the warmth and security found in a little human’s innocent cuddle.

Or lapping from a bowl of cool water on a hot day.

Rolling over, my eyes remain tightly shut as I stretch out my limbs and yawn wide. I cough around the odd sensation clogging up my throat, and as I do, my tongue pokes out and is instantly coated in the tempting sweet tang of rot as if lovingly strokes over the surface of my tastebuds.

A growl rumbles like thunder from low in my chest, bubbling up my throat and escaping past my yawning lips.

Hmm. Gggrrrrrr.

That bone smells worse than it did when I buried it in the garden after my human had tossed it out of the open screen door.

Was that last night? My mind feels foggy. Wrong. Not quite my own. My usual simple thoughts are muddied and fractured. Besides, what would I know about human’s time measurements? I’m just a dog.

I like to think I’m intelligent. My human says I’m a clever boy, whatever that means.

But really, I don’t know last night, or any other night or day, from my tight little arsehole.

A cramp settles low in my belly. Between spread thighs, my nads throb.

Wrroofff. I need a piss.

And, now I think on it, a dump might be in order too.

A gentle, warm breeze ruffles the fur on my head, and my nose twitches as the pungent odour of next door’s cat’s shit wafts over me.

Another growl hisses over my lips when I register the fact that it was prowling around my yard, slinking through my flower-bed bed and watching me.

As it shat somewhere near my head.

All while I slept, my nose shoved up my own arse.

My guttural, vocal annoyance sounds alien and terribly odd to my ears.

Almost as if I’ve been barking at stinking cars too long and my woof’s gone husky.

The uneven edge of the garden’s rocky border, and the sharp points of the groomed Azalea bushes, dig into my back. My forehead crinkles.

That’s strange.

I usually enjoy sleeping in this spot in the garden. I always catch the first rays of the morning sun.

But for some reason, everything’s more uncomfortable than usual.

And it feels cramped.

In an effort to make myself more comfortable and hopefully drift back to sleep before guard duties, barking at the postman, and passing cars, tears me away from napping, I squirm on the spot.

The dirt beneath my shoulders and legs is soft and sun-warm, while the itch low on my back eases with my enthusiastic wiggling against the ground.

My eyelids tic, preparing to spring open, as the need for more sleep floats away, despite my best efforts to nod off.

My urge to take a leak has shot past insistent, it’s now bordering on painful. While the disgusting smell of catshit makes the ruff on the back of my neck stand on end.

At the scent of my sworn enemy, my lips peel back, exposing strong, pointy teeth.

All of that’s soon forgotten when the sharp pangs of hunger gnaw away in the pit of my belly with the arrival of the familiar tang of meat drifting in the air.

As my mouth waters up with the delectable scent of warm meat, my brain switches the pesky bodily signals to ignore. My nose twitches, and as I always do, I pick apart the individual notes of the meat symphony wafting around me.

Yes, above the faint tang of souring meat, are the familiar notes of slime, decay, dead flies and softening bugs.

It smells delicious and I lick my lips.

My nose twitches harder. The warm morning sun caresses the length of my exposed belly as I draw my paws up to my face and shudder out another stretch, confident in the knowledge that breakfast will be served very soon.

Rolling over, I open my bleary eyes and prepare to trot off and water my favourite tree before shitting up near the rear fence. My preferred spot to drop one, but only because the scent of my ‘clever-boy’ shit, makes the crazed dog living on the other side, pull and yank on his chain as he barks himself into a frothy mess.

My paw pushes down into the short grass and I almost swallow my tongue as I stare at….

A hand.

With….

A sprinkling of dark silky hair dusting the smooth skin between the knuckles and back of the hand, and peppering the side.

A hand.

What is going on here?

A. Human. Hand.

With….

I blink. Shut my eyes. Open them again.

It’s still there.

I hold it up before my wide eyes.

It hovers in the air like a curious hornet.

That’s definitely not my satin-furred dachshund paw, tipped with curved black claws.

I stare down at the four or ten, or six, slender human fingers — again, sweet reader, I’m a dog. I can’t count — topped with their short, dirt encrusted human nails.

I let out a yelp, and waving the horrible thing in the air, I rear back in panic onto my haunches, and then my top half overbalances when the thing follows me.

Over the sound of bees in the flowers, birds in the bushes, and bowls and bowls of blood rushing through my head, I hear the snap of my owner’s prized Azalea bush as I land on my tailless arse directly atop the now broken bush and the surrounding planting of daffodils, my legs drawn up.

Where’s my tail? Flowers tickle my bare skin. An angry bee stings my arse in retaliation for sitting on its head. Ooops, my human will not be happy about her plants, I think briefly with this unfamiliar new brain, before the thought evaporates as my eyes continue travelling up from my non-paw and over the pale length of a furless arm.

With my head crackling like it’s stuffed full of dried leaves, my vision blurs. My thighs quiver, legs parting at the knees. They begin to scissor open without me telling them too. Splaying, they flop heavily to the side, their new long and muscular size squashing more delicate flowers as they connect with my bed.

Bewildered, and unable to understand what’s happened to me, I cautiously open my fingers.

Slam them shut.

Spread them wide again. Twist the hand from front to back. Back to front.

Grrrfff. Yep, it’s definitely attached to me.

My eyes widen, and my mouth drops open, a low grunt falling from my lips as I trace my gaze down a slightly furred, and — my mouth twitches — heavily muscled torso, and finally down to a large, long and hard set of doggy equipment. The main part, which, right at this moment, is proudly jutting out from between the middle of a set of splayed, muscular and, hairy thighs.

My eyes bulge as I stare at the equipment I now own, bits which I definitely didn’t fall asleep owning last night.

Last night.

What happened last night?

I frown.

I have fleeting images of a cat, dried flowers and the scary new neighbour pointing at me, eyes glowing like moons, and laughing, but apart from that, it’s pretty much all a confusing blur.

Now that I’m not thinking about food, the urges I put on ignore, have come back, stronger than ever. Even as I think about them, my stomach tenses, and a cramp low in my belly and back makes me cringe and lift my shoulders to my ears.

I really need to…err…do something. I’m just not sure what yet.

While I’m still sitting in the squashed flowers, my bee-stung arse throbbing and on fire, and my stomach feeling like it’s going to explode from the end of my improved doggy bits, I hear the light tread of my owner making her way towards the kitchen.

Her sweet bird-voice chirps as she switches on the music box and begins warbling along with the tinny voices coming from the box’s face.

My eyes widen in utter panic and I drop my paws to cover up my aching doggy bits when I hear her making her way towards the back door, my delicious smelling breakfast in her hand. My nostrils widen as I take in the tantalising scents coming my way, and for a few seconds I almost forget what’s important, and what’s not.

I don’t think I should let her see me like this. I think that’s what’s more important than breakfast, is the main thought doing laps inside my head. The second thought is, what am I going to do about it? You need to hide Wazza, that’s what you need to do.

Gazing around me, I stick my tongue out and pant heavily as I look for somewhere to hide. There’s nowhere in the yard that’s big enough for my new size to comfortably fit into.

My eyes dart to the cool darkness swirling beneath the house. Nope. I’m much too big to squirm under there in this body.

Same with the shiny, little pointy-roofed kennel in the far corner of the yard where my owner keeps her grass-cutting-stick with the stinging bits of string flying out of its round head, the noisy grass mowmer, and the blood-coloured wheeling borrow, tucked away in.

I’m given a reprieve when my owner’s little talking box starts to make a terrible noise like yowling cats, and she stops to talk back to it. She’ll be a while if past experiences of listening to her are anything to go by. With my heart pounding in my throat, my eyes slide to the pointy-roofed kennel’s door, my breathing wheezing in and out of me and my lungs falling to the dirt when I see the glint of the metal box hanging from the handle.

I squeeze my throbbing, hard bits in frustration, whining low in my throat when they send a pain up into the bottom of my belly.

I’m only a dog, well I was. Still, I don’t know how to undo something that complex. I’m good for undoing shoelaces, shredding paper, and ripping ribbons on presents. You know, that sort of thing.

So, I’m guessing, hiding in there is out as well. My tongue darts in and out of my mouth and the very hard, but very improved doggy bits beneath my hand, begin to throb and jump beneath my touch.

I’m not sure what I think about that.

It’s kind of nice, but at the same time, it’s rather disconcerting to be holding it in my paw. I never did that before. I was more of a licking-the-privates-kind of boy. My nose wrinkles up at the thought of licking myself, and I’m utterly perplexed by my reaction. It was never an issue in the past, a little tangy at times, but just something that a clean and fussy dog did if he wanted to look nice and pretty for his owner.

My brain is assaulted from all sides by these new emotions and thoughts as my eyes dart away from the shiny, little mowmer kennel and on past the thing that isn’t a tree, but sticks up from the ground like one. There are no leaves dangling from the web of string encircling it. It has my owner’s cloves hanging down from those plastic pincers that I like to chew up if she drops them onto the grass.

As I stare at them, a tiny idea tickles my brain, growing bigger and bolder as I look from the brightly-coloured dangling cloves, to the thick trees that border the houses on this side of the street.

I blink. Yes, I think that might work. I’ll miss my breakfast though, but I’ll just eat it when the coast is clear.

Rising, I hunch over, my dangly bits clasped in these unfamiliar hands as I creep across the yard to the not-a-tree. Stopping beneath it, I stand tall, reach up and grab the clove closest to me, something silky, in the same colour as the flowers I like to sleep in. I tuck it under my arm while I reach and pluck off a pair of little black things that my owner wears beneath her cloves.

Scanning them quickly as they dangle from my fingers, I can see they’ll be a squeeze, but at the moment, beggar-dogs, can’t be chooser-dogs.

Swivelling my head about quickly to make sure no one’s seen me, I scamper hunched over across the lawn, towards the shiny, pointy kennel, the fence and the lure of the thick trees behind it, and the safety of the dark shadows swimming in-between them.

I should be safe in there until I can work out what’s happened to me and give some thought as to how I’m going to fix it.

Leaves, and discarded twigs, crackle and crunch beneath my bare feet as I sneak further into the thick shadows hugging the trees. When I feel I’ve gone far enough to be safe, but not that far that I’ll lose sight of my home, I stop.

My heart beats rapidly in my chest, making my ears pound.

Dropping the cloves at my feet, I put my paw — no stupid, I correct, my hand — to the strange-feeling new skin covering my chest and press it firmly against the light dusting of fur that’s growing there, in an effort to calm it down.

My tongue automatically slides out of the corner of my mouth as I concentrate and wriggles about. Tipping my head backwards to rest against the rough bark of the tree I’m standing beneath, I rub my other hand over the top of my head and watch the slivers of blue sky shrink and grow larger as the leaves at the top of the tree sway and jostle in the breeze. The silence holding its breath amongst the trees is broken when birds sing and call out to each other.

Above me the leaves rustle, and a bird takes flight from its hidden perch within, small wings flashing dark against the bright sky as it disappears through the gaps in the treetops.

Releasing a long sigh, I straighten and look down at the cloves I’ve stolen off the non-tree. My owner will be so cranky with me if she finds out I’ve taken them. My head hurts with all that’s happened to me. I’m just a dog, how am I supposed to work this out on my own?

Bending, I grunt as I grab the little black things and stand.

Stringing them out between my hands, I stare down at them. I know the basics about wearing them, I’ve seen them on my owner. The back legs go through two of the holes, you pull them up the legs and they cover the arse.

Okay, that sounds easy enough.

Holding them down near my knees, I lean against the tree for balance and lift my back leg, shoving my very large foot through one of the holes, before pulling the flimsy material partway up my leg. I repeat the procedure with the other, and with both hands on the little pants I tug and wriggle and pull, my back scraping against the rough bark as I manage to get them up over my knees.

Pushing away from the tree, I bend over slightly at the waist, grit my teeth and growl in my throat, scaring several more birds from the leafy cover above me, as I fight to get the material up to, and over my arse.

No matter how much I tug, they won’t go any higher than the tops of these muscular new legs I now own.

Grimacing, I pull harder and an awful ripping sound greets my ears. Freezing in place, I feel a breeze on my flesh as the back of the material peels open, right down the middle.

Straightening, I look down, noting how the little pants sag and drape down the front of my hairy legs. My brows scrunch together. That doesn’t look right. I’m pretty sure my owner never wore hers like this, but it’ll just have to do until I can get some larger ones.

Turning my attention away from them, to the bright cloud of material at my feet, I sigh, squat — the little pants tearing some more as they pull tight around my thighs — and grab it. Standing tall, the little pants slither down my legs, to flop like a dead thing around my ankles.

Disgusted at their weakness, I step out of them and kick them out of the way with the side of my foot.

Looking down, I study what’s dangling from my hand.

Okay, this looks simple enough.

Holding my hands up and out to the side, I stretch the soft material, my eyes wiggling as I scan it.

Right, I see.

I give it a quick shake, dislodging several crawling ants. I don’t like ants; they nip and sting. And they climb all over my food if I happen to leave it unguarded in the bowl.

Yes, this looks easy enough to work out. There’s a large hole at the top for the head, and one on either side for each of my front legs to poke through.

Swallowing, I lift my arms, and place the clove over my head, wriggling the material until my eyes pop clear. Copying what I remember of my owner putting one of these things on, I raise an arm, bend it sharply at my elbow, twist my body at the waist, and shove my arm, splayed hand first, though one of the side holes.

It’s a bit tight, and I nearly snap a couple of fingers off as they catch on the arm hole, but I persevere.

I want to howl with relief when I manage to get both my head, and half an arm, inserted into the clove.

My arm is bent at a weird angle, and the clove pulls tight across the side of my neck, across one shoulder, the top of my chest and upper back, but I’m nothing if not determined.

Biting down on my bottom lip, I hold my breath and push.

My arm finally erupts out of the hole. I smile widely in satisfaction, even though it’s sticking straight up into the air like my tail used to do, and the material stretches across my body like my, let’s-do-walkies-harness.

You can do this Wazza, I think determinedly. It’s just a fancy rag.

Sticking out the tip of my tongue, I make a tight fist and jiggling and squirming sideways on the spot, I battle to poke my other arm through the spare hole.

Just like the fragile little black things now lying broken on the leafy dirt, it also makes pained ripping sounds as I force my arm out.

Smirking with self-satisfaction, I grab handfuls of soft yellow on either side of my body, and yank and tug it down my lower body.

It stops to hang in frayed ruins midway down my legs, hiding my new male parts beneath silky slashes of sunshine. My eyes widen at the bizarre sight, while a weird sensation warms my belly and bubbles in my chest.

It rises into my throat and parting my lips, I release a weird choking sound.

Laughter.

How very human of me.

Although, it’s all I can produce in the way of vocals, as my breathing feels rather constricted due to the clove being extremely tight over my chest. Rolling my shoulders, I awkwardly reach around and scratch at an itch on my tail-less arse. Bringing my hand back around to the front, I find both of my new front legs dangle from my shoulders in a way that feels like I’m carrying something round and very large beneath them.

Reaching up, I scratch at my jawline, the skin beneath my touch as spiky as a patch of bindiis, and altogether strange without my lovely long whiskers.

Dropping my front leg, I flap both of them, whilst simultaneously pushing downwards in an effort to get them to hang neatly at my side like I’ve seen on other humans. They don’t seem to walk around with their front legs sticking straight out to the side. After a few downward thrusts, I decide these new, and much larger arms I’ve woken up with, probably look good to other humans, but they seem pretty useless to me.

They won’t hang tidily down the sides of my body due to the tiny holes squeezing them and holding them stiffly out to the side like an insect’s wings.

Huffing, I twist and turn, awkwardly glancing over each of my shoulders to check out my back view. I’ve seen my lovely owner do this and if I want to blend in, I should really copy the human’s rituals. Silly as they are.

My lips purse as I study myself. The clove looks a little tattered, but all in all, I think I look alright. Running my hands down my belly, I flatten out the wrinkles.

I look like a human male.

At least I’ve covered up the new bits I woke up with. I shouldn’t make anyone look too closely at me when I go and try to find someone who can help me.

I pace backwards and forwards, the clove ripping some more at my back when I lock my hands behind my neck. I make a gruff sound in my throat. Why do the humans wear such flimsy cloves? I don’t understand their need to cover their bodies with such pitiful items.

My tough, fur-covered dog-body was weather-proof, it always fit perfectly, never tore or ripped, and it looked good.

Unlike this silly body covering I’ve been forced to wear.

Stopping, I gaze past the trees and off into the distance where I know the towm is located. I suppose I’ll have to wander into the big building where my owner goes to buy my food. Surely there’s someone there who’ll know how to fix this.

Fix me.

I nod to myself. You’d have to be pretty smart to remember all the things they sell to other humans, and that’s what I need, a smart human.

I just need to be careful of the row. It’s very busy. I’m not allowed to walk on the row by myself, my owner said I could get run over. Whatever that means.

Feeling eyes on me, I drop my front legs from my neck to float by my side, and walk a few steps to stand in a warm ribbon of sunlight piercing this part of the trees. Crackles and light snapping sounds come from behind one of the trees rising opposite where I’m standing.

Narrowing my eyes, I growl low and fierce in my throat. Heat surges through me and my hands curl over and fist in the air by my side. Fine hairs on this new body rise as a small shape slinks out from behind the tree, intelligent, bright green eyes piercing right through me. A long tail waves and those leaf-coloured eyes blink.

I stiffen at the pungent odour of cat. Anger, aggression, and frustration over my situation make my breathing quicken, and my lips tingle. Every muscle in my body quivers and then grows taut beneath the ruined clove I’m wearing as I prepare to launch myself at it.

Poking out my tongue, I run the tip over the width of my plump, bottom lip. I’m already imagining tufts of fur sticking to my tongue and coating the inside of my mouth.

I’m imagining it running, and the sounds it’ll make as I sink my teeth into its back, stopping it. The fight it’ll give me.

But, with a bit of a disappointment, and a massive blow to my doggy pride, it doesn’t do anything.

My shoulders drop as I sag internally.

Have I lost my touch? Aren’t I ferocious and scary anymore?

Rumbles of anger bubble out of me.

It blinks, but doesn’t hiss.

Doesn’t strike out at me with sharp claws.

It doesn’t react to my presence at all.

It just stares like it could kill me with a long look.

Lazily curling its tail snuggly around its legs, the tip flicks backwards and forwards as it continues to stare at me with an intensity that makes my belly harden and fills my head with savage thoughts of flying fur, bits of flesh and hot blood.

Withdrawing my tongue, my lips pull back and a weak snarl flows over my bottom lip. Frowning, I try again, this time attempting to make it sound as savage as I feel.

Again, it comes out sounding more like a wet gurgle. This new throat of mine just can’t seem to make the vicious sounds I’ve always taken for granted my whole life. The cat raises a front leg, straightens it, and slowly strokes a dark pink tongue down the length, its bright eyes never leaving me.

Lick. Lick. Lick.

Stare. Stare. Stare.

I slam my lips together in a thin line, shame painting my face in stripes of heat.

Cramps low in my belly remind me that I still need to take a leak. I look around for somewhere private, somewhere away from the cat’s searing gaze.

As if sensing I thought of it, it pauses in its grooming and exposes a set of sharp canines as its lips peel back in an ugly smile.

I’d jump on it and wring its furry neck, if I didn’t need to relieve myself so badly. So, not liking what I’m doing, but with no choice if I don’t want to piss myself in front of the cat, I turn away, fallen branches and dried leaves crunching underfoot.

With the strange sensation of my owner’s soft clove brushing against my legs, I give the cat my back. Its eyes burn into me, as I walk off, my tall form melting into the cool shadows like the superb hunter I once was.

Using one hand, I hold the clove awkwardly up and out of the way as I grab my new piece of equipment in the other, the hot length firming and growing as I handle it.

Frowning at the odd sensation, my eyes slide down to look. Yep, it’s definitely grown, but there’s no time to think about that now, I’ve got a leak to take.

Raising a leg, I lean to the side. My other leg bending at the knee to balance my weight, I throw the raised leg out sideways. Happy with my pose, I aim my much-improved and bigger equipment at the tree. Tipping my head back, my eyelids shutter in relief as I spray the dark bark, the pressure in my belly easing.

From the small clearing comes the sound of a happy meow, and the deep crooning of a male voice. Eyes popping open, I drop my head, the bristles on the back of my neck rising in alarm as the sound of that masculine tone brings images racing through my mind.

Tall body. Shiny eyes, twisty rope hair, scary singing and a long finger pointed at me.

The new neighbour, Mister Merlin.

The warm length in my hand shrivels, and I shudder as a shiver tears up and down my spine. Leg wobbling, I straighten it, while the other lowers. Fixing my wrinkled clove as best I can, I consider my options; stay hidden behind the safety of the tree until he leaves, or charge out there and show him I’m someone not to mess with.

Before I can do either, he takes the choice away. Footsteps crunch their way towards me. Standing taller, strange new muscles tighten across my body and my hands curl, making fists by my side. I sniff at the air, my nose crinkling.

It smells like dust, cat, piss, fear and power.

Feeling him draw closer, I bare my teeth and snarl in my throat.

He strides into view, and I take an involuntary step backwards as he looms over me like a dark cloud. His eyes glow silver like stars, and his hair floats about his head as if invisible fingers are playing with it. Framed by a wild mess of hair which flows down to his chest, his lips lift at the corners as he looks down at me, before pulling back into a tight smile.

His eyes flash with silver flames. Well, well, well. And who do we have here? He chuckles, the long nightscape clove he’s wearing, swaying about his legs.

Beneath the cover of my hair, my scalp twitches like my head’s crawling with ants.

The cat flies up to perch on his shoulder, long tail curling neatly about its seated body. Its easy pose is elegant, and speaks of something done often in habit, and with absolute faith in its place in this human’s world.

One long-fingered hand rises to gently pet its soft-looking fur. He turns his head and tilts it, long ropes of frosty hair tumbling down his arm, those silver eyes with their sharp gaze now honed in on the cat. Hello again, my pretty princess Freya. Have you been teasing our little friend here, or keeping him company?

The cat stretches forward, rubbing its nose against his, its loud purr reaching my ears.

You do have such a spirited streak, my Freya. Praise the old gods you never lost that.

While he’s babbling to the cat, I keep my eyes on him and take a cautious step backwards, and then another and another, until I’ve placed a decent amount of space between us.

Sucking in a deep breath, I release it slowly and quietly when he ignores me and keeps talking to the cat. He’s forgotten about me, I reason, using the opportunity to take another cautious, silent step backwards, my arms and fisted hands arrowing down my side.

His hand stills on a downstroke of its curved back, and I freeze, bare foot raised and held in the act of shifting backwards.

Without looking away from the cat, he speaks. His voice, although deep, is easily heard over the annoying chirping of birds which have flown down and now perch on every available part of him. His arms, the top of his head, his other shoulder; they’re all taken up with birds of all sizes and colours.

The birds bunched together on his shoulder, peck and caw at each other and he places his cat-patting hand above them, palm down and fingers splayed. Et cessabit, he croons. From his profile, I see him close his eyes, his hand waving a tight circular path above the birds’ heads. They fall quiet and he drops his hand back to pet the cat.

Leaving already Wazza my friend? I thought you’d want to stay awhile and chat. I’m sure you have a million questions for me. His head slowly pivots on his neck, shining eyes piercing me from across the distance I’ve placed between us.

At his intense look, a lump rises to sit uncomfortably in my throat. I try and swallow it, while beads of sweat form across my forehead, lip and on the back of my neck.

I don’t think I like you, runs through my head.

His eyes twinkle, the skin creasing at the corners. You will.

Breaking my frozen pose to swipe the back of my hand across my forehead, I wipe the dampness off on the side of my clove and surprising myself, take a step towards him.

Silver eyes glowing like full moons, his lips lift, in what I — with my limited knowledge of human emotions and body language — can only interpret as happy, when I creep nearer. Fine hairs dusting my arms rise in alarm, and the air snaps and snarls with static the closer I get to him.

He turns to face me, his long clove flowing down and about his body, the animals moving with him like he’s a human-shaped tree. He smiles, showing me small teeth as white as a fresh bone. See, there’s nothing to be frightened of, he says. We’re all friends here. He continues slowly stroking his hand down the cat’s curved back, the birds on his other shoulder stamping their feet and fluttering tiny wings to balance with each undulating motion of his arm, while the cat’s fur crackles and sparks with white energy with each pass of his palm.

Despite the abundance of prey perched around it, within easy reach of those sharp claws, those bright green eyes slide shut and a rumbling purr reaches me.

I stop just out of his reach, my eyes tracing a thorough path over his tall figure, taking him in. Through the cracks, and splintery gaps in the wooden fence dividing his overgrown yard from mine, I’ve seen him pottering around during my patrols. But I truly don’t understand why he’s here in the trees with me now, and what he has, if anything, to do with my current state of bizarre-un-dogginess.

By my side, my fingers twitch and fidget, before rising to perch on my hips exactly like I’ve seen my owner do when she’s cranky. I open my mouth to ask him several of the many, many questions I have stinging the inside of my head just like the angry bee I sat on earlier stung my arse.

Running short on patience, I release the grip on my hips, and jerking my hands stiffly about my head, I fire off my thoughts, Did you do this to me? He remains silent, intense gaze on my face, his hand calmly stroking the sleepy cat. I let out a deep breath and push on, not needing him to confirm or deny my accusation. I feel the truth of it piercing my heart.

But I would like to know why. I’ve never done anything to him.

My face screws up in outrage. Why? Why would you do that? How long will I have to suffer this body? I’m a good boy, a good dog, I never do anything naughty. Well, nothing too naughty. I ignore the images dancing through my head that tell me the opposite. They show, in vivid colour, me tearing up the colourful ruff-muss paper and contentedly chewing on the assorted plastic pincers I’ve found lying on the ground beneath the metal-non-tree.

I slam my lips shut and with my short nails I scratch at an itch tickling away beneath the bristles covering my jaw, my foot tap-tap-tapping on the dirt. The questions sounded pretty good in my head. Quite human, if I’m being honest. I think I did alright there. Unfortunately, I’m too late to realise that what has come out of my mouth, is a series of unintelligible grunts and harsh, snappy gruffs instead of the crisp, clean words I’d wanted.

Human words.

My bones soften and I tuck my head down into my shoulders like a sleeping bird, some of my bravado melting. Stupid, stupid Wazza, I shout internally.

I want to bite my tongue off, dig a deep hole and bury it.

I understand enough to know I can’t undo what’s been uttered. And even if I could somehow gobble my sounds back inside of my mouth, I wouldn’t know how to go about it anyway. Noises aren’t something you can taste, touch or see, they’re like farts and thunder, you hear them, but you can’t lick or eat them.

Or make them disappear.

Brushy brows rise like climbing caterpillars above starlight-silver eyes, the wide, shiny surfaces flaring with humour. Tipping his head back, he peers up at the slivers of sky peeking through the treetops, presses a flattened hand to his belly and laughs.

Dropping my brows down over narrowed eyes, I push my lips out, not really feeling amused.

Lifting my arms, I lock my hands together behind my head and dip my chin, only half-studying some beetles crawling across the assorted leaves and twigs littering the ground. From the corner of my eyes, I watch the strange human, and that fleas-crawling-over-my-skin sensation of doing something stupid, and very wrong, gets worse. Something jumps about under the skin at the base of my throat, because now his whole body is laughing with him.

At. Me.

Scuffing my feet, disturbing the beetles’ journey when I shift the leaves they’re currently crawling across to reach somewhere else that’s not near me, I shift on the spot. Puffs of dry, powdery dirt rise in little clouds about my bare legs.

My belly rolls and flops like I’ve eaten too much fat and I’m going to be sick, and my nose prickles as if I’ve got grass poking around inside my nostrils.

Through all of this, he’s still laughing.

I give up on pretending to watch the beetles. Dropping one arm to my side, I raise the other hand to my face and squeeze my nostrils in-between my thumb and the next finger, my eyes sliding over to look at him. Beneath his long, night-coloured clove that’s covered in sparkling stars, glittering raindrops, shiny moons and golden suns with curling thorns sticking out of them, his shoulders rise and fall, rise and fall, making the sleepy cat and roosting birds bob up and