Aghast at this immediate decrease in age, you fail to think of the impending consequences and throw off the femine dress. Immediately, your vaginal genitalia flex themselves inside out and reformat themselves into that of a male (for all a 4-year old's is worth, anyhow).
Your rejoice a restored gender is interrupted, as the only governing piece of clothing on you any longer is the diaper.
As a fox-boy, you grow younger still, backwards through kithood towards indisputable infancy.
You feel your muzzle round itself and push slightly inward, becoming less lengthy, and the rows of teeth in your mouth retreat as if on schedule into your gums leaving only your pointy little canines behind. Comparitively, your tongue is swollen in reference to the rest of your prominent, but puppyish muzzle and any attempt at word formation is reduced to a puling coo.
Your legs grow unsteady as you lose all sense of coordination and balance, falling clumsily on your cushioned, diapered, buttocks. Your bones seperated and fat to muscle ratio balances, giving you the form of a lean, but healthy kit.
It is all you can do to roll slowly and trialsomely onto your fuzzy pink and white belly, gurgling in confusion and disfunctionality. Steadily, you push yourself onto your knees and support your torso in an inclined posture with your paws and look in the mirrior of the changing room. All you can see, staring back at you in wide and bright eyed purity, is an anthropomorphic baby male fox. You cock your head to the side with a whine and let your wet, pink tongue push out in front of your muzzle.
It is at this point that a rustling is heard outside.