You totter uncomfortably out of the stall on your four paws, trying to get the rhythm right. While it feels like crawling, you also need to adjust your rear paws as though you were walking, so it takes a bit of concentration. Sticking your head out of the front of the stall, you look right, then left down the center aisle of the barn. To the sides of the aisle are various other stalls, some empty, some with horses or cattle or other domestic animals, at least so you assume. The barn does belong to an animal refuge, so there is no guarantee what they have picked up from who knows where. You can smell the different scents still, but while you can identify approximately which animal is where, you have no reference as to what type of animal each scent belogns to. You are in no hurry to wind up in a stall with a tiger or bear or something, so you decide to stay away from the stalls. However, how do you explain the sudden appearance of a stray dalmation to the owners of this barn, let alone explain anything, now that you are that dalmation? It is a rescue, after all, even if they take you in, you will probably end up neutered. Your tail scrunches up between your legs at the prospect.
Then again, even if you would have to be neutered, if you are stuck as a dog, would it really matter? At least if you're taken in by animal lovers, you'd be guaranteed a long, pampered life of a pet rather than the desperate life of a stray or ending up with a hoarder or at a puppy mill. When it came down to it, there was no point to going home. As soon as you stopped paying the bills it wouldn't be your home anymore anyway. You can't believe you're thinking like this, and once again curse the old woman in your mind.
The old woman! What if you went to find her? Now that you were a dog, maybe you could catch her scent. With an involuntary excited yip, you scrabble out of the stall and down towards the barn door, hearing other animals move uneasily and snort at your presence. However, you come skidding to a halt as you realize you shut the door behind you when you entered. Rearing up on your hind legs, you desperately scrabble for purchase with your front paws. Nevertheless, you cannot get a grip strong enough to shift the door. Desperate, you careen down to the other end of the barn, only to discover the same problem. It was a done deal, you were stuck in the barn tonight. Panting and nervous, you patter forlornly back to your stall, pushing your clothes together on top of some straw to form a make-shift bed, and lie down - after turning three times, of course.
"Oy, you there! This ain't no drunk tank!" you hear someone bellow as you squint open your eyes. You narrowly open them in the morning light to see the business end of a pitchfork a foot from you. Shocked awake, you sit up and back up against the wall of the stall, confused and scared by the angry face of an older man in overalls grimacing at you. You raise your hands in surrender...only to stare at them. Hands. Not paws, hands. Looking down, there you are in all your glory, completely nude, and completely normal.
"I'm human," you stammer out in shock, only to deepen the frown on the face of the old man.
"Look, I don't know what drugs you've been using, but stay the hell off my property! I know you junkies like to steal animal meds but we don't keep that kind of stuff here, understand? So tell all your addict buddies to stay away, got it?!" the old man railed and shook the pitchfork threateningly.
"I'm not..." you want to explain, but not sure what to say. What, "I turned into a dog in your barn, it's not like I shot up on animal tranqs?" That would probably only serve to convince the old man you were still high. Instead, you dress as quickly as you can at the end of a pitchfork and sidle out of the barn as the old man follows you, threatening to puncture you if you slow down.
"And never come back here again or I'll have the cops on you!" the old man yells, shaking his fist as you go down the roadway as fast as your legs will take you.
Eventually, with some jogging and some hitchhiking, you manage to reach the gas station and buy a can of gas, and even manage to get the station manager to call you a cab for the trip back to your dented car. It is well after noon by the time you get back home and your stomach is growling. To top it off, the recipe you were making last night has now been sitting out for over 12 hours, and you're not sure if you want to risk it. Instead you make yourself a quick sandwich and flop down on the couch, exhausted.
When you open your eyes again, the last red rays of the sun are just disappearing below the horizon. You sigh, and are about to force yourself to get up when all of a sudden you double over in gut-wrenching pain. The sandwich? No, a more familiar gut-wrenching pain. Doubled over, you make a made rush to the full mirror in the bedroom and yank off your clothes. Sure enough, and faster than the night before, something strange is happening to your body. Although at least this time you are in the safety of your own house, you still can't help but shudder in fear and shock. You had hoped it was all over, but not so. You go through the entire process: your tail pushing out, your muzzle growing forward, your hips shifting as your writhe and howl on the floor. Astonishingly, as you pant in front of the mirror staring at your fully dalmation reflection, you come to a horrifying realization.
You may just have been cursed to turn into a dalmation every night for the rest of your life.