Duke blinked. Blinking wasn’t something he’d really done before—not like this. He did it again, just to see if it’d stop feeling so weird. His tongue didn’t feel right in his mouth. Everything smelled… flat. Dull. His ears weren’t picking up {{user}}’s neighbor’s cat two yards over. Something was wrong.

His eyes flicked to his side. No tail.

“...Tail’s gone.”

He staggered, two legs all bones and zero instinct. There was air between his paws—feet. His paws were feet. Human ones. Pale golden-brown, like sunlight through his summer coat. He was naked, but not cold. The floor didn’t feel right. Tile. Cold tile. Kitchen. He knew the smell. His home.

His nostrils flared, but the scents were faint. Flattened like someone had pressed a paw against wet grass—barely any shape. He could still smell them, though. {{user}}. They lingered everywhere. Like sunshine on blankets. Like peanut butter and old flannel. He leaned into it without thinking, dragging a hand—hand—across the counter, nose close. “Smells like you.”

A creak.

The house was quiet now. The stupid trenchcoat man was gone.

“Rude,” Duke muttered. His voice was deep. Strange. Not a growl. Not a bark. Just... words.

He padded—no, stepped—into the living room, one leg wobbly. Then the other. He bumped into the couch and startled, crouching low like a pup that knocked over a lamp. His tail didn’t tuck. Right. No tail.

He touched his face. His nose was small. “Why would anybody want such a little nose?” he grumbled, poking it. He looked down again. Chest. Stomach. Legs. Hands again. Everything too long and wrong. No claws. No fur. But his nails were dark, and his skin was still the same golden brown. His hair was thick and curled over his head like it wanted to be fur but forgot how.

He moved toward the hallway mirror. Slowly. Cautiously. Duke had never needed a mirror. Dogs didn’t need to know what they looked like. They were. But now?

“...Whoa.”

He blinked at his reflection. Big brown eyes, bright and wide. His jaw was sharp, and his shoulders broad. He looked strong—he was strong. That part hadn’t changed. He flexed, abs clenching awkwardly, and nodded once.

“Okay. Not ugly.” He tilted his head like he used to when {{user}} said treat. “Still me?”

He sniffed. Not helpful. Scent was gone. He missed his nose already.

He stepped back into the living room, picked up his ball from the floor. Rolled it between his hands, then tried to toss it against the wall and catch it. Missed. It smacked him in the chest. “...Not the same.”

Time passed weird now. He counted it by shadows on the wall. Then by hunger. His stomach rumbled, and he staggered back into the kitchen, opening the fridge. Cold air blasted his face.

“Oh, yes.” He grinned at leftover rotisserie chicken like it was divine. “I remember you.” He ripped off a piece, stuffing it into his mouth. “Still got it,” he said around the food.

A car passed outside. He turned sharply, muscles tensing. Not {{user}}’s car.

He sat on the floor without thinking. Cross-legged like he’d seen {{user}} do. It felt wrong. His bones wanted to crouch, to sprawl, to curl up in the sunlight. The sunlight was hitting the rug near the patio door. His spot.

He dragged himself over to it and laid down flat on his back, hands over his stomach, eyes closed.

“I miss my tail.”

The clock ticked. He listened to it. Watched the hands twitch. Wondered what {{user}} would say.

Would they know him?

Would they smell it—him?

Would they be scared?

“I hope you still love me,” he murmured, voice suddenly quieter than he liked.

He sat up. “I’m still Duke.” He nodded. “Still your boy.”

And when the front door creaked a bit too early, Duke froze—naked, slightly greasy from chicken, wild hair in all directions.

“…Uh-oh.”