The Red Hound

The first thing that alerted me that something was different was that I awoke with a gasp, and dogs do not gasp. The second thing was that the dream that I had just dreamt was like the one I had the day I had woken up as a dog, but in reverse. Instead of being the transformed one, I had been the Red Hound, and I had been the one passing on my name. Hope filled me when I thought of what this dream could mean.

Looking down at myself, I found that my form was undoubtedly that of a human. My lean build, my rough hands and creamy white skin gleamed under my gaze, and an alleviation of a long-held frustration caused a sparkle to leap into my eyes. So overcome was I with gratification that for a long time all I could do was stare down at my legs with tears in my eyes and a joyousness in my chest blooming like a flower fuller than any I had ever conceived of before. I was Dawson once again.

When everything had finally sunken in and I came to terms with who I was again, I shakily breathed in to prepare myself and rose up on my two legs like I had wanted to since the moment I became Red. I wobbled a bit, feeling awkward without all fours on the ground, but my legs had not lost their strength and after a few experimental stretches and tests I felt not necessarily comfortable, but at ease on my feet. A triumphant smile found its way onto my face, and with optimism I did similar tests with my arms and hands, and even spoke aloud to test my tongue. My voice was not the smooth and firm authority that it had once been, but instead quiet and husky, spoken in a soft and gentle tone as if speaking was not a common occurrence. But despite this small difference, my body was exactly as I had remembered it: fit, slender, and powerful.

I, of course, had not been transformed back into myself wearing clothes, and I realized that if I was found in the barn completely naked as I was, I was done for. Since I had no money, I had to find an alternative method to find clothing. I remembered that our neighbours had a clothes line, and though I didn’t feel comfortable stealing, I knew that it was necessary to survive in the human world once more. Checking both ways to make sure neither Cara nor her father were around to catch me nakedly leave their barn, I sprinted from the property and towards our neighbours, (I guess their neighbours, now) the Robinson’s, appreciative that the change had taken place in the summer and not the winter.

The ground felt strange and even painful beneath my soft feet, especially as I crossed the tree line separating the properties, the ground’s jacket of pine needles poking at my skin in tiny pinches. My run seemed blundering and slow as compared to my normal graceful stride, and as gawky as it felt, I knew that, for a human, my run was both formidable and sprightly and for this I was grateful. Even if my run was as awkward as it felt, I would still feel thankful for it to have taken place on two legs.

I slowed to a jog as I crossed over the boundary between our properties, breathing deep and heavy, but not at all with exhaustion. I scanned around me cautiously, anxious that Mr. Robinson, a cranky and cantankerous old man, would spot me trespassing through his fields and, as stereotypical and cliche as it sounds, come running with his shotgun. I had never liked Mr. Robinson because he had never liked me, and also because he kept his dogs, a reasonably agreeable yet gloomy couple, constantly tied up in the back. I knew without a doubt that they would be there when I performed my heist, and hoped that it would not cause a serious problem.

I made it past his western field, and hid among the bushes obscuring the backyard, the branches scratching against my bare skin. I had almost forgotten the uselessness of humans in the wilderness, even a wilderness as artificial as brush surrounding a backyard. I pushed aside the leaves to peer into the clearing, and the clothes, luckily, strung out on the line, and the two canine heads perked up from their light doze at my appearance. It was early morning, so my chances of snagging a pair of pants and shirt were in my favour, but if the two dogs, Leroy and Tom, made even the slightest noise, Mr. Robinson would come out to quiet them. Mr. and Mrs. Robinson, I knew, were Christian, and as it was Sunday, were most likely off at church, but I wouldn’t let that become an excuse to lower my guard. The two dogs had to keep quiet.

I surveyed the windows for a few moments, unable to see properly into them because of the glare from the sun, yet I summoned up what courage I had to sneak quietly from the bushes and into the dangerous openness of the yard. Leroy stood up, and I thought he would begin to growl or even bark at me, but instead he ducked his head, wagged his tail, and trotted up to sniff at my legs, and strangely enough, I could understand him.

One would assume that once I turned human I wouldn’t be able to understand other dogs or animals like I could when I was a dog, but I suppose after my initial transformation I still understood humans, so it could work both ways. The understanding, however, wasn’t necessarily speech as I perceived it before, but instead a thorough comprehension of his body language, enough to interpret basic words and phrases.

“Friend, familiar”, he said with his tail.

“Hey, Leroy,” I said quietly, scratching at his ruff, “it’s Red. Stay quiet. I can’t be caught.”

He backed up and looked at me quizzically, “Red. Why quiet?”

I gestured down at myself, whispered, “I have no clothes. It’s not acceptable for humans to not wear clothes.”

I could sense his confusion at my change of form, but he asked for no explanation and said nothing but, “fine.” I rubbed under his chin in a silent thanks, then he left me to lay beside Tom as he had been doing before I had arrived.

I moved swiftly and silently as I rushed to the line to grab the first pair of pants and shirt that I found—a pair of worn jeans and a plaid shirt—then hurriedly pulled them on. They were at least four sizes too big and hung loosely off of my lean frame, but they would have to do. Ignoring the strange feeling of clothes on my body after so long, I held up my falling pants and sprinted out of the backyard, flying through the trees and stumbling over my jeans as I crossed over the field and back to Cara and her father’s property.

When I arrived, I no longer knew what to do. I could not stay there, a squatter on their farm, yet there was nowhere else for me to go. I had no money, no nearby friends or family, and no place to sleep. I was officially homeless. I refused to steal again, and there was a very slim chance of acquiring a job without the means to produce a resume or be interviewed properly considering the only clothes I had were quite obviously a farmer’s work clothing. The only clear option I had was to start over, and this time from the beginning.