The smell hits you before the first bite — that perfect mix of grilled meat, warm bun, and tangy mustard. It’s irresistible. You take a bite, and the savory flavor explodes on your tongue. Juices drip down your chin. You don’t even bother with a napkin. It’s just too good.
You buy another.
Then another.
And another.
Each bite makes your mouth water more. Each hotdog tastes better than the last. You don’t know if it’s the spices, the texture, or something else entirely — but you can’t stop. The line behind you grows, but you barely notice. You scarf the food down, barely chewing.
You don’t even realize you’re… shorter.
Your clothes feel a little looser around your waist, but tighter around your arms — no, wait. That’s not right. You blink and reach for another hotdog, not noticing that your fingers are stubbier, the nails darkening and curving slightly.
You’re too busy licking your fingers clean — except, wait… you’re licking your hand. Not fingers. Just one solid, padded paw.
You reach for your next hotdog with your mouth.
It doesn’t seem strange. Biting into the bun, tearing through the meat, gulping it down — it all feels so natural now.
Your pants have slipped down to your ankles, but your tail swishes happily behind you, unnoticed.
The vendor stares at you as you climb halfway into the cart, desperate for just one more.
Your ears twitch, perked high on your head. Your nose quivers, black and shiny. The scent of hotdogs has become overwhelming, intoxicating. You sniff around wildly. The smell of meat, grease, and cooked bread is all you care about now.
Not aware that your shirt has torn around your broadening chest.
Not aware that your tongue is longer now, panting, flopping happily between sharp teeth.
You’ve dropped entirely to all fours, your furry shoulders moving with practiced grace. It’s as though you’ve always walked this way.
You bark happily — and it feels right.
The scent hits your nose instantly — mustard, onions, grilled meat — and your ears perk up. Your tail wags without you even thinking about it.
The hotdog vendor with his red-and-white apron is stained with grease, and he smells like everything you've grown to love in the last few moments. He crouches slowly, one hand holding a fresh hotdog, the other outstretched.
“Well,” he says, voice low and kind. “You really do like them, huh, boy?”
You bark once, tail thumping against the pavement.
“Didn’t think it’d work so fast,” he chuckles, offering the hotdog. “But you’re a happy one, aren’t you?”
You lean forward and bite into the bun, your tongue catching the mustard, your tail still wagging as the flavors fill your mouth. It’s the best one yet. It tastes like warmth. Like belonging. Like home.
He scratches behind your ears — and it feels perfect. Your leg thumps the ground uncontrollably.