So, here I sat at a dive bar called Yt, with my friend Chad.

 

He was tall and broad-shouldered, a former clothing catalogue model, who I had met at life savers’ volunteering many years ago – even before he all of a sudden woke up with great hair, fashion sense, bulging shoulders, a slick, deep voice (thank the cigarette habit) and turned into a chick magnet. He was still the same guy I knew: the guy who giggled at silly memes, burst into tears at Dark Souls and almost busted his desktop pc rig by amateur soldering the circuitry.

 

But the reality was, one of us desperately needed to be here, and one didn’t. And there was no hiding the fact that I fit into the former category.

 

Being friends with someone like Chad was a dual-edged sword. On one hand, it got me some face time with attractive women; friends of Chad's. But typically there was something 'wrong' with them, pushing them out of Chad's circle of eligibility, and into mine. Because, of course, the girls wanted to go home with Chad, at first instance. Going home with me meant that they'd lost out with Chad, and by that time women couldn't hide their disappointment and it tainted their estimation of me. By the end of the night, women had forgotten me and were scheming how to make Chad change his mind about them. My dates asked me more about Chad than myself, and used me to try to get back to him.

 

Maybe I'd fare better here with an average looking guy. Physical attraction had relativity, and where women are forced to make a choice, surely you wanted to be the hottest in a group of uglies, rather than the ugliest in a group of hotties. But none of the ugly ducklings I knew had any game. So I kept coming back with him, for better or worse.

 

“You need to be more into a group scene,” Chad was telling me over beers. “You come across like some kind of lone night wanderer. And that’s a problem.”

 

We sat in an exposed area close by the bar (Chad refused to hide in the corners). The music pumped overhead. I could hear the sharp ‘thwack’ of pool balls behind me.

 

“What? I’m a night owl,” I corrected him. “I get my best work done late. What’s wrong with that?”

 

“Nothing wrong. Just creepy.”

 

“How am I creepy?”

 

“I don’t mean in a bad way. I just mean to people who don’t know you, you seem like the type of guy who hides knives in his clothing.”

 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Anyway, I thought girls went for the bad boys, the lone wolves, the guy who goes against the established order.”

 

“Where are you getting your information? TV soaps? Trust me, you want quality over quantity. You don’t want just a bit of skirt. You want real stability. So you need to look like a loyal, faithful, devoted men. Cast-iron marriage material.”

 

“I don’t believe that,” I said, shaking my head. “I don’t even think you believe that. It’s naïve. What do those guys get for their trouble? Those guys get shafted eventually for the bad boy.” 

 

“Brian, even if you were right, you’re not a ‘bad boy,’ – who even uses that term anymore?” He eyed me seriously. “When was the last time you got in a fight?”

 

“Last week,” I jumped in proudly.

 

“When was the last time you got in a fight and won?”

 

I went silent.

 

“You’re too fixated on being Alpha,” he said sagely. “It’s got to come from inside, you can’t push it. Only a Beta worries about being Alpha. Real Alphas just are.”

 

I stopped. Something was wrong. Then –

 

The music went quiet. People were blurry and moving slowly. Everything was filtered out.

 

A woman had locked eyes on me. I looked at her.

 

Dang.

 

Like, dang.

 

She was stunning. Her skin was uniformly and naturally tanned, and her long, swept back hair was the same colour as her skin, that almost-but-not-quite-blonde milky coffee colour. She had bright, perceptive eyes half hidden under sculpted eyebrows and long lashes. Eyes capable of throwing you a direct, meaningful, inquisitive stare that hit you like a punch and drowned out everyone else in the room. In fact, they just had. My stomach was actually winded for a moment.

 

I felt like that cliche whistling wolf in the cartoon.

 

A moment later she smiled coyly and looked away, as if embarrassed she’d been caught staring. But pleased. I continued to look for a moment, hoping she might glance back, but she didn’t. I wrenched my eyes away like I was pulling my leg out of hardened concrete.

 

I had to get closer, but how? First, I wanted to figure out if she was here with anyone. The assumption was, if her eyes were wandering to sample the goods, she was probably single. But I wanted to be sure. In the back of my mind, I knew an ‘Alpha’ wouldn’t wait, but screw Chad and his advice.

 

The woman was now was talking to a male, but it was difficult to tell if it was a friend or a stranger.

 

A girl slid into the seat beside me, blocking the view of my seductanatrix.

 

“Hi!” she said, pumping my hand up and down eagerly.

 

“I’m Becky!”

 

She had nuclear green hair, red fishnets, a man’s tie and jackboots and a Michael Jackson glove. She looked like one of Lily’s friends (my ex girlfriend, who was crazy). That sent a shiver up my spine. To be fair to her, under all the garb she wasn’t unattractive. She just had tragically unfortunate timing.

 

“Uh…” I droned, “hi.” My eyes slid off her and over to Chad as if for help.

 

“I’ll grab a drink and let you two get friendly,” he winked at me. He stood and ambled off towards the bar.

 

My eyes glazed. My chest felt like a wrecking ball had smashed into it. In my mind’s eye I saw him wander past mystery woman, get her attention, and go home and have hot, mad, animal sex. All while I was here fighting off an estimate of the probability that the cast of Friends would ever do a reunion show, come up with a name for her goldfish, and then help Becky work deep into the specifics of what, how and why things so wrong with her previous man.

 

Actually, that’s not what happened. Instead, she wanted my help in coming up with twelve names for a litter of kittens. This discussion was also peppered with solicitations to sell me the kittens. After being asked ‘Do you want a little pussy?’ for the fourth time with absolutely no irony, I was seriously convinced Chad had pranked me. He had tossed this girl at me like smoke while he zipped away with mystery woman. Maybe they hadn’t even gone very far. Maybe just outside, at the back of the club. It hurt to wonder.

 

And she had actually looked at me. Held her gaze a moment after I looked back. The corner of her mouth had quirked in a suppressed smile. I hadn’t imagined it.

 

If Chad got to her first, it was all over.

 

“Hey!” Becky’s voice rang over the music. She tapped my shoulder, hard, with the flat of her palm. I looked back to her and swallowed.

 

“What do you think of Chairman Meow?!” she said, beaming proudly (everything she said sounded like it ended in an exclamation mark).

 

“Butch Catsidy!” she said after my hesitation.

 

“Oookay…Cindy Clawford!”

 

She had the names written down on a napkin and was crossing them off.

 

“Um…what do you say we talk about…” I stammered.

 

“OH! –” she said, making me flinch, “I’ve been thinking of incorporating an eye patch into my clothing ensemble! What do you think? – mysterious, right?!”

 

“The only thing mysterious about it is why you think that’d be a good idea outside of a costume party.”

 

“What about suspenders?!”

 

“What do you need suspenders for? You’re wearing a skirt.”

 

“A clit piercing!”

 

I gaped. 

 

“Why would you even ask my – ?”

 

She looked away. She was scribbling madly on the napkin again.

 

This conversation was getting too heavy and off the rails for one man to field alone. Where the hell was Chad?

 

Oh, that’s right…

 

I picked up my beer and gulped liberally, waiting to get drunk enough for my eyesight and memory to die. Within two seconds the glass was empty. Now, I schemed how to extricate myself from being guided through a napkin diagram of what looked like different kinds of torturous-looking sex toys.

 

My eyes drifted up over Becky’s head. The light dimmed. The music went quiet, until there was just a deep throbbing bass beat.

 

She was moving over the floor and stopped at the bar. She leaned over the counter and the yellow light illuminating from the liquor shelf spilled across her figure warmly, showing her off. Her butt was pushing out slightly in my direction. I was already stuck on her just seeing her face, but now, in case that wasn’t compelling enough, she also had a damn fine body: tall, slim, but not bony; meaty in all the right places. A round, almost strikingly indecent, bottom, connected to a killer pair of thighs balancing on black slingback stilettos. And a great pair of Tommyknockers. A stylish gash down the side of her flamingo-red ‘fuck me’ dress, down from the armpits, even teased some black side-bra at just the right angle. My mouth had gone dry.

 

Chad hadn’t gotten to her.

 

Before I knew it she had turned her head, while the rest of her body still leaning over the counter, and caught my eye again, with certainty, like she had known exactly where I was. With increased confidence this time, she gave me a coquettish grin that said, ‘Hello again.’ I even thought she shifted her butt just subtly, either to draw my attention (as if I hadn’t already seen it) or to bring it more into the light. Surely it was just my imagination that she was isolating me. Was this getting eerie, or what? There was something deliberate and calculated about it.

 

Had Chad set her up? Maybe Becky wasn’t the prank. Maybe this woman was. But I didn’t really want to believe that. So I didn’t.

 

The bartender spoke to the woman and she turned back around and straightened up, as if she had really just been posing for me. Now there was no doubt left in my mind that she was flashing all the signals that she was available. I just had to make my move.

 

Chad returned with the drinks. I only took a measured taste of mine. I wanted to keep my head clear, now. I was floating in a ‘sweet zone’ of inebriation; the confidence without the clumsiness.

 

“How are you guys getting on?” said Chad, taking his seat across from us.

 

“Oh, no sparks from me,” Becky shrugged with cheerful nonchalance, “but I’m like, yeah, I don’t like him but I could do worse. So, it’s like, do I hedge or what – hey,” she said suddenly, to Chad, and leaning forward, “—are you available?”

 

“The answer is no and no,” he said.

 

“I only asked you one question,” she said, pouting and crossing her arms.

 

“You were about to ask a second one.” He then looked at me.

 

“What are you thinking, Brian? The night’s still young. You staying put?”

 

I bit my lip. I would have taken my cue and left now, except for the mystery woman. Didn’t want to stay….didn’t want to go – what to do?

 

That decision was made for me when Becky jumped up to use the restroom. Possibly even to throw up. She’d gotten more excited over the drinks than I had. It seemed like she was downing them as a coping mechanism from her shattered previous relationship. A bad sign; even if I had liked her.

 

“So what’s your thoughts,” Chad, looking at me levelly. “Really, I mean.”

 

I studied my hands for a second, vaguely wishing they weren’t so small and feminine and had more hair on the back of them, like Chad had.

 

“Not feeling it with Becky,” I said, and then leaned forward and smiled. “But I’ve got a really good feeling tonight,” I said. “I’ve been getting some good signals from this one girl.”

 

“Sweet, point her out for me.”

 

I indicated her, still at the counter, her back turned to us. Now she was talking to someone – a woman, thankfully.

 

Chad let out a long exhalation.

 

“Oh…” he said, finally. “So much eye candy there you’d think it was an Optometrist’s Halloween.”

 

“That doesn’t even make sense,” I said.

 

He ignored me. Then he burst into laughter. My spirits sank.

 

“So, the thing is, dude,” he went on, “You’re aiming for the stars with a slingshot on that one.”

 

“What?” I said, a little quickly. “You think I’m below that?”

 

“Oh, no, no, no, you’re not below,” Chad emphasized. “She’s above. Way above. There’s a difference.”

 

I tried to ignore him. Still, I couldn’t help but feel a little deflated. If Chad – former male model, Chad – thought she was unobtainable, then what chance did I have?

 

“You know who she is?” I asked, wondering if he might have some inside intel before I made my move cold.

 

He looked back her and raised his eyebrows. “She doesn’t even look like she’s supposed to be here. Like, she’s on her way to a better joint and got lost. Don’t you reckon she’s probably been hit on by a thousand guys already?” he looked back to me. “You sure there isn’t another girl in here? Give yourself a tiny chance, man, come on. Don’t shatter all your hopes on the first girl.”

 

“Hey, don’t tell me to duck out now,” I grunted. The truth was, I knew I was overreaching, but now I’d seen her, I couldn’t leave the place without giving her a shot. Otherwise, I was always going to wonder what might have been…

 

He must have read the determination in my face.

 

“What the hell,” he shrugged. “Go for it. Maybe you’re delusional. Maybe not. They say: if you think she wants you to ask her out, she would have said yes ten minutes ago.”

 

I got up and began weaving through the crowd, making my way over to the bar. There was only one problem: by the time I got there, she had vanished. I turned, scanning the place. People shuffled around in the shadowy lighting, milling and talking. She could be anywhere. Maybe even out of the joint. I felt my brow prickling with perspiration. I’d spent too long on Becky. I’d lost my chance. She was gone. It was over. These thoughts jumped around inside my brain like a cloud of insects. There were other thoughts, too, more basic ones; I was itchy behind my ears, my mouth was dry from the beer and I needed water, it was too loud and busy all of a sudden, I needed to get out and go for a walk…

 

That last one seemed like a good idea. Weaving between people, I began making my way towards an exit.

 

“Hey,” a guy waved me to stop, “you got a lighter?”

 

I turned back and came face to face with the mystery woman. Her eyes peered into my face warmly.

 

“Hi!” I yipped in surprise.

 

She smiled.

 

“I thought you’d left,” she said. “I was looking for you.”

 

Say what?

 

I let that go unremarked – surely I had misheard her in the din of the chatter. But my heart was already leaping; was this it? Was this really going to happen? Had my instincts actually been right about this girl? Holy shit.

 

She faltered for a millisecond.

 

“You’re Brian Stevens…right?” she said, slowly enough to leave it open for me to correct her.

 

My mouth went askew. I stared. What was wrong with my hearing tonight? Was I going deaf? This was just spooky now.

 

I still hadn’t said anything. She bit her lip, still sort of smiling. She looked so hot I could die.

 

“Yeah!” I said.

 

“It’s good to see you again,” she said, relieved, and went to shake my hand.

 

Never shake the hand of a woman you want to fuck, Chad had once said.

 

The thought came out of nowhere, throwing me off balance and I and accidentally put my hand straight down into her palm.

 

“My bad,” I said, quickly flipping my hand around to try again, but this time we got the other way around – her hand in my palm. Now both chuckling awkwardly we got the right position the third try. She had a surprisingly firm shake, I noticed, very dominant, and she kept her keen gaze on me the whole time. Total Alpha woman. It was almost intimidating. Now the pressure was on. If I didn’t match up, I was going to crash and burn, and fall under her feet in a crumpled pile.

 

I tried to fake some nonchalance.

 

“Have we met?” I said.

 

“You don’t recognize me…?” she said, biting her lip again, but this time her smile was fading.

 

Oh shit. Was I supposed to? Surprise pop quiz – and I hadn’t studied. This was not going how I imagined. But I couldn’t yet tell if it was a bad or a good thing in the making. The absurdity of the question struck me; I must have been smacked in the head with a 2x4 to have forgotten a woman this hot.

 

“Uh…I know it’ll come to me…Just wait a second…”

 

“It’s okay,” she smiled diplomatically. “It took me a second to realize who you were, too. Not fair of me to spring myself on you like this.”

 

Not fair on so many levels, I thought – struck by how purely gorgeous she was.

 

“Care to give me a hint?” I said.

 

“How about the name Stacy Shepherd. Does that ring a bell?”

 

“Stacy,” I repeated like I’d been slapped.

 

It rang a bell like Quasimodo scaling the Notre-Dame and blasting the great bourdon with his bare fists. Stacy was a girl I used to know at school, seemed like ages ago now. Had some classes together but never knew her well, different circles of association. I was starting to see the resemblance now. Only, the drop-dead knockout standing before was sure no school girl anymore.

 

“You –” I stuttered, “—wow! – you look very different!”

 

“Yes,” she gave a small smile, “a little effort goes a long way, I guess.”

 

But it went way beyond ‘a little effort’ – I was barely noticing the outfit, and I was fairly blind about telling whether women were wearing cosmetics or not. Stacy was the full package, up and down. But I just nodded.

 

“What are you doing here?” I said.

 

“Guess I’m wondering the same about you,” she said. “But you asked first. Recent breakup. So I’m just here to have some fun being single again. Now your reason.”

 

“I…” I hesitated. Pussy fishing? “Do I need a reason?” I said finally. “Long day. Just wanting to hang out. Have a drink.”

 

“That’s fair,” she nodded. “Not so different from me, then.”

 

What a load of demure crap, I thought. She was making eyes at me earlier – I was certain of it. But we were both guilty of lying. I needed to man up and just ask. I needed to be Chad for once.

 

“So…so back on the market, huh?”

 

“No,” she said slowly. “Not tonight.”

 

“Oh, I just thought – ”

 

“Yeah…I’ve had some pretty hairy dates the last few weeks,” she said, giving me a hesitant, even apologetic look. “I think I just want to step back for a little while, reevaluate my priorities. Work on some personal projects. It’s a busy time.”

 

“Right.”

 

“Yeah, I mean,” she went on, “Christmastime’s hard. There’s a lot of pressure to spend this time of year with someone, and I don’t want to fall for it. What’s so bad about saving some time for yourself?”

 

“Kind of lonely, though, right?”

 

“It’s not lonely,” she sighed. “I would rather be alone than with the wrong person.”

 

“I’m the wrong person,” I repeated before I could help it. I could feel my chance with her dwindling like sand out of an hourglass.

 

“I didn’t mean it like that,” she said, and then relented, “you’re the wrong person now. But you might be the right person in maybe a couple of years’ time.”

 

“You wish it was someone else standing here,” I said gently.

 

“No,” she said. “Don’t take it the wrong way. You’re actually very handsome, all grown-up.” A blush was creeping into her cheeks, I noticed – it had to be just the make-up, I decided. The lighting was weird and artificial in here.

 

“You look very different,” she went on. “But not different enough. I wish I didn’t know you – in a nice way,” she said. “I know you can’t just wave a magic wand and turn into someone else. But I’m a little shocked it’s you. I don’t know how to feel.”

 

“It really bothers you? I don’t understand.”

 

“Back at school,” she went on solemnly, “you were friends with this guy who made fun of me, because I’m allergic to dogs, and, to be totally honest, he was an absolute jerk to me…”

 

“I think I know who you’re talking about,” I chimed in. “Yeah, he made fun of everyone. He made fun of me, too. Haven’t seen him in years, though. But I never made fun of you. And it was a long time ago.”

 

“I know, I only just remembered now. It’s the association. And maybe it was a long time ago, for him, but I’m still allergic, and it upset me a lot because I couldn't have a dog, let alone getting made fun of for it as well.”

 

“How about if we pretend we just met,” I shrugged. “We can pretend that stuff never happened.”

 

“I can’t do that, Brian.” She sounded genuinely sorry.

 

“Well,” I said with a big sigh, “we were just kids." I gestured vaguely with my hand. "If I could go back in time...”

 

“Forget it. Pretend I didn't say anything,” she brushed some hair out of her face. Her hair was long and wild and luscious and I longed to groom my fingers through iit. “Look," she carried on slowly, "I’d still really like to catch up with you sometime, just to talk. Perhaps we could be friends – ”

 

Somewhere in the back of my mind, there was a tiny, emasculated scream of horror. I could practically imagine Chad’s face: Dude, friendzone alert. Get her number or shut it down! Now!

 

“I’m sorry, I have to…uh…” my eyes darted around, “…go see a man about a dog.”

 

“Okay,” she said, her eyes dropping to her hands, which were wringing in discomfort. She didn’t buy it. I might have well have held up a sign that said ‘I only want your body.’

 

“Well, I won’t keep you, then.”

 

“Sorry, excuse me – ” I moved off awkwardly, losing Stacy in the crowd again.

 

 

 

Chad watched me come over with a troubled expression on my face. His face – as always – was blank and composed. Totally zen – an expression he’d probably perfected from modeling.

 

“No luck,” he said, completely unsurprised. “Sorry, man. Crossed signals.”

 

“She was into me,” I said asserted.

 

“Too mechanical, no warmth,” he went on blithely. “Intimidating. You need to blink more.”

 

“It wasn’t that,” I said. “We knew each other from school.”

 

“Oh, weird.”

 

“It was for her, I guess. But she said maybe sometime in the future. Once she’s more used to it.”

 

“Used to what? What’s the problem?”

 

“Said an old school friend of mine made fun of her for being allergic to dogs. She was crying at school one day. He made fun of her because of that. Someone said she had found out her parents had given her dog away while she was at school because a bug bite made her get the allergy, or something. That’s why she was crying.”

 

The memories were coming back now, and they stung. I hadn’t made fun of Stacy at school, but I had told my friend about her allergy and her dog being taken away. And he’d gone and used that information to make fun of her.

 

And guess who that friend was?

 

Chad.

 

It didn’t seem Stacy had recognized him. But then, he looked very different from his school days.

 

“Oh, sucks,” he said, looking away. “But, you know, her loss. School was – how long ago? The Buddha’s since been reincarnated like three times. Can’t carry it forever.”

 

I glowered at the table. Either Chad had forgotten that incident or he was pretending to.

 

Then I sighed.

 

“This is going to sound stupid but, I just…I want to do something to show I’m not a jerk. I didn’t make fun of her, but…I didn’t help the situation, either. I just ignored it.”

 

“You’re right, it does sound stupid,” Chad said blankly. “It’s her problem.” Then he leaned back in thought for a moment. “But there’s this company and they do genetic engineering. You’ve heard of CRISPR?”

 

I nodded. CRISPR had opened the door to a lot of now legal, accessible genetic modification. Most of it was done during family planning stage, i.e. before a child was born, and most people were relatively happy with what their parents gave them from birth. In the majority of cases it was just for illness eliminating purposes, or reducing illness risks. Oddly, the increased availability of aesthetic alteration actually seemed to reduce the procedure’s desirability. It was according to the rules of supply and demand. When everyone could look like the magazines, the pictures in the magazines stopped looking so rarefied and desirable.

 

It was also like cosmetic surgery, in that there was also a slight stigma to it, something untrustworthy and insecure about it. Regardless, you didn’t go around telling people you were a CRISPR baby, or whatever, because people started wondering to what extent your genes had been altered. An unexpected rebellious culture had developed which patted those on the back who defied the norm, for their stubborn willingness to reject genetic alterations, birth defect, illness or none.

 

For what it was worth, I suspected Chad was a CRISPR baby. Maybe that’s why he was depressed and on like a cocktail of anti-depressants.

 

“It’s like that,” he went on. “Called TALEN. Not actually TALEN, but some experimental offshoot called TALE. Nothing to do with the original TALEN anymore. It’s a whole different animal. They can give you traits or take them away. But not just little things. They’re talking about radical stuff – stuff CRISPR and TALEN and the others aren’t touching. I bet they’d be able to fix an allergy. And it’d be really simple. They’ve streamlined the whole thing down to an injection of microbots.”

 

“Really?” I said with a stab of excitement.

 

“Yeah. Bots. Whole different ball game.”

 

“Is this injection something I could give to her like a Christmas present?”

 

“Why not? There’s only one issue – it can get pretty expensive.”

 

My face fell.

 

“How much?”

 

“More than this girl is worth. And yeah, I saw her. I know what she looks like. But – ” he quickly went on, “ – they have some altered payment plans. Apparently, they can agree to heavy discounts if you either do some work for them for a little while, at a reduced rate. They have a big turnover rate, apparently – don’t know why.”

 

“Maybe I’ll look into it. I mean, I’m looking for a new job. If the work is decent, maybe they’d keep me on at full rate after I fixed the debt. That’d kill two birds with the one stone. Hey, thanks, man,” I said sincerely, “you’ve made me feel better already.”

 

“No worries, dude. Tell me how it goes.”

 

The next day I looked up this TALE procedure. It was a result of ongoing research undertaken by big biotech plants like Quantor Limited and Vegrandis Technologies. Some medical clinics were beginning to roll it out as an inpatient procedure you could opt for. And by the sounds of it, not even a long inpatient stay. There was such a clinic in the city, not too far a drive from my place.

 

The website said you had to make a ‘biological donation’ for them to use as raw material to create an injection. This necessitated going to their quarters and having a procedure done to extract the material, which sounded like surgery, with anesthetic. The head doctor who performed the procedure was called Dr Ikeda. I booked an appointment by phone. Surprisingly there was no consultation; everything was done through paperwork they sent to my email. They were prompt, if nothing else.

 

The paperwork asked me where I wanted to have the end product sent to. I put down Stacy’s address. Thankfully, delivery could be arranged for Christmas day with one of their couriers, so I didn’t have to wait until the national mail got back in after Christmas.

 

It said the delivery would be accompanied by instructions detailing the nature of the product. I figured that would save me having to explain to Stacy what it was. The more of an unexpected surprise it was, the better. And I didn’t want to deliver it in person, or be around when she opened it. She’d already given clear enough ‘give me space’ signals at the club. It was risky enough getting her a Christmas gift. I wasn’t trying to get into her pants or anything; it was to make up for the school stuff. That’s all. If she wanted anything to come of it, that was on her.

 

The website allowed me to include a personal note, so I put in the provided space:

 

To Stacy,

                 This is for your dog allergy – see inside.         

           

Take Care and Merry Christmas,

 

Brian Stevens.

 

Then I sent the paperwork back over email. Then I felt stupid. Really stupid. I should have said something laid back and witty. But too late to change the message now.

 

I supposed when an injection turned up at Stacy’s on Christmas day she would figure out what to do with it, even if the instructions didn’t make clear. All she probably needed to do was get a doctor to inject it or something, watch her for a few minutes to ensure there were no adverse effects, and that was it, she’d be dog friendly for the rest of her life. Probably get a puppy then, and once she realized the awesomeness of the gift I’d given her, maybe even get back in contact with me, seeing me in a different light than the dumb kid I was over a decade ago.

 

And if not, well, I did a good favor and it didn’t cost me anything, so that was something, too. I only hoped it would not backfire on Stacy and make her problems worse. I should have rested assured that it did not end up backfiring like that.

 

Little was I to know, it did not backfire on Stacy at all.

 

It backfired on me.

 

 

I looked again at the address I’d found on the internet: Mr Ren Ikeda: 1113 Lappe Street. Driving through the city, I left my car in a parking facility a block or so away from the medical clinic, and then started walking along the pavement. It was a bit of a hike up hill but I was relatively fit and liked a good walk, or even a run, when I got the chance.

 

The landscape didn’t do me any favors, and reminded me why I didn’t like the city. Skyscraper office complexes walled me in, separated by graffiti covered alleyways. The air was smoky; both looked it and smelled it, and bothered my sensitive nose. 

 

There was a woman walking up the street going in the opposite direction. Young and attractive, hips sashaying hypnotically as she walked. I found myself staring. A dog bounced in front of her on a leash. Someone said dog walkers were easier to chat up if you had a dog yourself. Maybe I should get one, I thought, and then, being more realistic, dismissed the thought. A puppy for Christmas – the last thing I needed. I would be sick of it by New Year’s. I just didn’t have the patience for anything more than, say, a goldfish, and even that was pushing it. After a little while watching a goldfish swimming around and around in a tiny bowl, I would start getting the creepy feeling I was just watching myself in animal form.

 

I was more of a cat person. Except I didn’t really like cats, either.

 

And in less than 24 hours, I wouldn’t even be a ‘person’.

 

The woman met my eyes for a fraction of a second. I gave her my best pre-prepared ‘Hey, niiiice,’ smile and slight eyebrow raise. She looked at me as if I was another species, before disinterestedly sliding on a pair of sunglasses, and looking the other way while her dog pulled her onwards, as if even it wanted to get her away from me. Yes, there was always some failure of animal magnetism with the opposite sex that I had never quite been able to conquer.  Was it some inconsistent, trustworthy body signals, or a scent of desperation I was giving off, did I emotionally expose myself too readily, or not enough? I had no idea. The chemistry was just not bubbling into a reaction. But what did I care, now? That woman was no Stacy. Eyes on the prize, Brian.

 

There was a big multi-storey building coming up, white with tall opaque windows. It looked less like a bio-engineering corporation and more like a modern hospital. I went through the revolving doors at the front and entered a big reception with stairs curving around the side, like some kind of hotel.

 

“I have an appointment with Dr Ikeda,” I said to the woman at the front desk. She pointed me where to go. The elevator had the floors in letters, unusually. Ikeda’s floor was K, room 9.

 

Stepping out, a red carpet ran to a hallway full of engraved wooden doors with gold painted numbers on them. In the distance, I thought I could hear animals whining and grunting, which made me hesitate. I thought this was just for gene alteration. I didn’t think they would need to keep live animals on the premises. But what did I know; this technology was fairly recent. Maybe some things were still in the testing phases. Though I didn’t know why they would have the testing happening in the same place as the actual procedures.

 

Stopping at number 9, I knocked and waited.

 

A man opened the door and peered at me. He looked half Japanese – and I guessed this was Mr Ikeda. He looked like he was dressed to go out, wearing a white shirt and white tie, with light grey pants.

 

“Brian Stevens.”

 

“That’s right,” I said.

 

He stepped back, pulling the door open.

 

“Please come in.”

 

I stepped into a bright room like an office.

 

“It’s a nice building,” I said. “Like a big hotel on the inside.”

 

“We aim to present,” Ikeda bowed his head. “The community has such a low perception of what we do.”

 

“I don’t know if I’d agree,” I said. “The technology cures deadly illnesses.”

 

“Disease is like a hydra. You make one alteration, or cure, and two more unforeseen problems spring up.” He eyed me, pausing. “Do you know why this is?”

 

“I’m afraid I don’t.”

 

He gestured for me to take a seat in his office. While I did so, he went around and sat down by his office desk. He held his hands clasped on the table as he spoke:

 

“Because gene editing talks to genes, not sequences. Patterns. The human biological structure – every biological structure – is built up of evolutionary adaptations like a Jenga tower, each adaptation has piggybacked on a previous one. So you change a link in the chain, it affects other links in ways you can’t predict.”

 

“I guess that’s just the risk you have to take,” I said.

 

“Not necessarily. TALE does not talk genes. It talks sequences. Long sequences. Some people hesitate at the sound of targeting genes which the patient did not specify be altered. But we say – to use your western phrase – in for a penny, in for a pound. Some people think this is throwing the proverbial baby out with the bathwater. Only alter the bad genes. Good genes should not be touched. What are your thoughts on the matter?”

 

“I looked it up online before I came here,” I said hesitantly. “Apparently, TALE can modify somatoypes, is that right?”

 

Ikeda shook his head.

 

“Not just somatotypes. Phenotypes.”

 

“I don’t think I understand.”

 

“It’s an inevitable result of what we do. A necessary evil, in some cases, the intended outcome, in others. It all depends on the client’s particular goals. The drastic outcome is inscribed in our corporate vision: if the alteration of the gene is locked up by the sequence, we say, alter the sequence. And this has broader knock on effects.”

 

“And what does that mean?”

 

“You seek trait A. But in order to possess trait A, you must also possess trait B. Then we give you trait B. But one who possesses trait B must also possess trait C. And trait C cannot coexist with trait X. And you may have trait X. So we remove X. But now we must replace it with an alternative. So we employ trait Z. And so on.”

 

“It sounds very complicated.”

 

“It is, and in time we may address this, further, if you wish to learn more.”

 

“All I want to make sure is, you’re not going to completely alter my friend – I mean, the recipient’s – genetic makeup?”

 

“No. Rest assured, Mr Stevens, that’s not what our procedure contemplates at all.”

 

“Oh, good. It sounds like what you do is very different from the other genetic editors.”

 

“We endeavor to pioneer. People haven’t yet grasped what an impact we make with the changes we can do. It’s still catching up with the public. But we’re not as interested in the publicity. We’re confident that we’re making people’s lives better, in the meantime.”

 

“Well, if you can do what I’m asking – although it sounds kind of trivial – you would make a big impact in the life of someone I know.”

 

“No, Mr Stevens,” Mr Ikeda shook his head. “Nothing we do here is trivial. I appreciate the import of your proposed alteration. A dog is nothing to be laughed at. In certain cases, one’s dog is one’s life. In fact – 2018 – we have the year of the dog upcoming, is it not? Regardless, it’s a big commitment. You know that a dog is not something you receive at Christmas and get sick of the day after. At the end of this procedure, your life will be inextricably tied to another. As long as the recipient does not change their mind, you may not change yours.”

 

I hesitated, thinking his rhetoric was a little lofty and grave for something like an allergy cure. But evidently he was passionate about what the organization did.

 

“The recipient isn’t going to get sick of this any time soon,” I reassured him. “It’s been a problem for close to two decades. From the age of seven – now she’s about twenty five. She loves dogs, and the allergy just gets in the way. According to her, it’s a massive deal.”

 

And, I thought – but did not mention – it’s damn well getting in the way of us.

 

The doctor considered what I said.

 

“People are prone to covet what they cannot have,” he said, “even in far excess of the thing’s real value. And twenty-five years of no dog will have built up a vast reserve of…what is the term I am looking for? – Coverture.”

 

“I think that means something different,” I said, some social studies lessons swirling vaguely in my head. “Something like the historical concept of marriage when the wife became the husband’s property.”

 

“Maybe,” he stared at me. “One or the other.”

 

I just nodded. None of what he’d just said made any sense.

 

“We discussed on the phone,” he went on, “and you’ve filled in the paperwork. You clearly know your intended purpose for your procedure, but you know what your being here is designed to achieve, Brian?”

 

“I’m not sure I totally get what it’s going to involve. But I take your word for it that it’s going to mean no more dog allergy for my friend – the recipient, I mean. I’ve read the paperwork you sent me.”

 

“We work to incorporate your goal into the ultimate outcome, don’t worry. We’re going to manage your friend’s allergy with the end product. Which is to say, the recipient will be immune. It’s very important you have a good idea of what we plan to accomplish today. I will run through some basics with you, just in case. We splice sequences, as I stated. Not genes. We find relationships between genes and splice together as sequences. That results in wholesale changes. We’re going to use select chains in a dog sequence to make up the product specified in the application form. Combine them with your own DNA to create the final result.”

 

“My DNA?” I repeated. I did remember reading in the paperwork I was sent, though I didn’t quite understand the ultra-scientific jargon. I liked the symbolism of it though; that they would use my DNA to create the anti-allergen.

 

“So it’s like she’s receiving a piece of me,” I said.

 

“She will be quite literally receiving a piece of you, yes.”

 

“It won’t take long?”

 

“Not for you. We must put you under anesthesia, so it will pass instantaneously for you. But will take a few hours for us. Luckily, you will be asleep for all the hard parts. Think of it like dental surgery: We are removing a small piece of you, but not taking away anything essential. And what we take, we replace with something better.”

 

“Yeah, that’s the plan, anyway,” I said. “Will this be good to get to her tomorrow?”

 

“Certainly. It’ll be finished before midnight. You’ll sleep a little. The couriers will take the delivery to the designated address tomorrow morning.  They do Christmas shifts. Real Santas driving removal vans.”

 

“That’s great,” I said. “It just makes it more special if she gets it Christmas morning.”

 

“Of course, and I hope you can excuse the observation,” Mr Ikeda interrupted, “but you must care for this woman very much, to undergo this. You must care for her enormously. I don’t know very many people who would make this kind of decision lightly.”

 

“Is it that obvious?” I said in an undertone. “I just want it to look like I’m doing her this one simple, meaningful thing. Not this huge, stupid gesture. I barely know her.”

 

“There is nothing stupid about it. Many will not understand. Only you can understand why you do it. That’s what matters.”

 

“Yeah, don’t worry about what other people think,” I said. “That’s what I need to hear. Oh – ” I said suddenly, “— before I forget, I want to check you saw I opted for the alternative payment plan on the forms.”

 

Mr Ikeda waved his hand.

 

“No need for worry, Mr Stevens,” he said quickly. “This procedure is actually part of the research we are conducting at the moment. By agreeing to do it, you are providing us a subject, a volunteer. Then, after it’s finished, you can go off and will never have to hear from us again. There is no cost.”

 

“Really? That’s very generous.”

 

“It’s not generous. If anything, it is selfish. It is understandably difficult to come by human subjects for this procedure, if anything, we would normally be paying you.”

 

After signing some forms, Mr Ikeda took me down a white hallway at the back of his office, and into a room with what looked like a big dental chair.

 

“You weren’t lying about the dental surgery,” I said.

 

“It’s not like a big invasive operation. I don’t open you up at all. I inject the solution and the microbots take care of everything.” He gave me a smile through pursed lips, “They need to steal your essence, you might say. I just need to stand by to supervise.”

 

“All safe, right?”

 

“Relatively so, yes. Of course, any operation comes with risks. These were outlined in the materials I sent you.”

 

“Of course. I remember.”

 

I went behind a curtain to change into a hospital gown, and then Mr Ikeda had me get onto the reclining chair. He took my blood pressure and then injected something into the crook of my arm, and taped the syringe in place.

 

“This will put you to sleep,” he said. “The one after contains the microbots.”

 

My stomach tensed with mounting regret. I had a bad feeling about this – maybe it was all the canine yipping I could hear going on in an adjacent room. But it was also like Ikeda had said: it was a big commitment. Well, not really, but it was too big for a woman I didn’t know nearly well enough to justify undergoing a surgical procedure. This is what a beta would do; go out of his way to impress a girl like this. An alpha would just bide his time and let the girl come back to him. Maybe it wouldn’t impress her after all. Maybe it would repulse her; make it look like I was trying way too hard, was too desperate.

 

But it was too late now. I was finding it difficult to concentrate, and sense of heaviness began smothering my consciousness. My eyelids drooped, my head fell back.

 

At some point I thought I caught snatches of conversation, which made no sense to me:

 

…The ones promoting the emergence of the Alpha traits. Because this was the Alpha of a group of dogs, of course...

 

…Promoting the Alpha gives the best chance of stability and resilience later… 

 

Then, for a long time, I wasn’t aware of anything.

 

 

I was, sometime later, vaguely aware – through a dreamlike haze – of the low drone of a van, which must have been part of some forgotten dream. There was the illusion of movement, a lifting and dropping sensation, probably my stomach turning in nausea at the anesthetic, rather than actual locomotion.

 

When my eyes opened again, I found myself standing up in an upright box of some kind. For a brief moment I thought I was in an upright coffin, and my heart hammered. But it was just a box; no velvety lining or curved lid. There were a grid of tiny holes running along the top, enough to let air and some pinpricks of light. Otherwise, I couldn’t see much at all. I couldn’t even see my own body.

 

To my surprise, drool was running down my chin. My lips felt floppy and my tongue hung long out of my mouth and I couldn't get it back inside, like dental surgery gone wrong. They must have operated on my mouth, I thought angrily. That dental chair wasn’t just a stylistic choice! And then I grew worried; had something gone wrong with the procedure? Why was I in this dark, enclosed space? Well, at least I wasn’t cold, wrapped up as I was in a fuzzy blanket. Post-operative was considerate like that, if not entirely comfortable.

 

As my thoughts became more lucid, my mind turned to getting out of the enclosure I found myself in.

 

"Hello?!" I shouted.

 

"Oh!" a woman's voice came from outside. Only, it sounded familiar. I scrunched my eyebrows. No...it couldn't be...How…?

 

"Stacy?" I called out. "Is that you?"

 

"I can hear you!" she called back.

 

"Where am I? It's dark, I can't really see anything."

 

"Hold on, little guy," she said. "I'm coming. I'm getting you out now."

 

I frowned. 'Little guy?' She knew it was me…right?

 

I heard footsteps approaching. There was the sound of something being shuffled around over my head, and then light spilled onto me, in from a square hole at the top of the box. Before I could react, a huge pair of gigantic hands emerged in the light above my head. I only just noticed the familiar shade of flamingo red coating the huge fingernails before the hands swooped down onto me and capably encircled my chest. I yelled in fright as they lifted me up into the air under my armpits.

 

I found myself suspended in the air, and facing right in front of a giant. The ground – a beige carpet – was tens of metres below me. I was in some huge expanse room that looked like a living room, the walls far receded.

 

And right before my eyes, looking down at me, this giant person. But not just anyone.

 

It was Stacy. And she was enormous. She was multi-storey-building tall. Her head alone was almost my total height, she could have covered the front of my torso with her palm, and her fingers encircled my ribcage with ease. Her mammaries – resting right in front of my face – were like a shelf that could’ve together supported my entire weight.

 

I was roughly the size of a puppy.

 

This wasn’t possible.

 

A high-pitched whine was coming from my mouth without me even helping it. I was kicking my legs and struggling.

 

“No, no no!” Stacy cooed at me. “Don’t be afraid of me. I’m not going to hurt you.” 

 

There was a beat as her eyes dropped.

 

“Oh…!” she said in an odd voice. 

 

Judging by where her eyes were looking, I was hit by a pang of horror, thinking I must have lost control of my bladder. In fact there was an imminent loss of control looming. But it was worse.

 

My bulge was pointing out stiffly between my legs. And boy did it look strange now – Brian junior, what happened to you? I nearly yelped. The glowing red tip of Brian junior was now sheathed in a white furry ruffle. How festive.

 

“You’re really happy to be out of that box, aren’t you?” Stacy said. Happy, excited, terrified, inappropriately amorous -- what did it matter when all those different feelings equally caused my heart to skip around like there was a baby rabbit trapped in my chest.

 

It didn’t help that Stacy was making no effort to hide her candid stare. And why would she? What a confronting thought. I was no longer ‘me’ – or not the ‘me’ I had been the last time I could remember. That was becoming clearer and clearer. I had a strong suspicion I was no longer quite human – she was certainly not looking at me with the reservation of someone looking at another person. She had the unguarded, unconditional expressiveness of someone interacting with a small animal. And that suggested, for me, now, the words ‘naked,’ ‘modesty,’ and ‘decent,’ might as well have been obliterated from application here – obliterated from my life dictionary altogether.

 

She bent and placed me gently down on the carpet. This was when I was able to get a good look at myself in the light, and see more for myself of what kind of beast I had been turned into.

 

The first thing; there was no furry white coat. I was naked. When I thought I had been wrapped in a furry blanket, I was only half right. My bare skin was covered in silvery white fur. I ran a hand through it, wondrously afraid, and found my palm and fingerprints were covered in soft, dark pads, and ended in little black claws. Thankfully, my hands weren’t full paws, they were still hands. I could move my fingers and thumb, and grasp things. But without looking closely it wasn’t hard to be deceived.

 

More bizarrely, a long furry tail erupted from the base of my spine – actually my spine continuing on past my lower back, out of my body – a weird realization. And in my heightened excited, terrified state, it was flicking back and forth wildly, outside of my control, and giving the mistaken impression of joy – which was the last thing I felt.

 

And what did my face look like? I wondered with dread. Judging by how my tongue was drooping out from my mouth, I didn’t really want to know. I could feel extra length in my ears that I’d never been aware of before. That was not a good sign. I reached up and felt an ear that was a little wider than remembered, and extended above my head, ending in a point. It also felt like a tuft of hair was growing out of it – that definitely wasn’t there before. I could also swivel them around more than I used to be able to, a novel skill that refined my hearing, but of absolutely no help in the circumstances.

 

Also, a bunch of different smells assaulted my nose; the pine of the freshly cut, small Christmas tree standing behind me, the chemical tang of insecticide around the windows, the meat that had recently been baking, a flowery aroma to scent up the house – maybe lavender or something – and, the strongest scent of all; the fruity spice of Stacy’s perfume, doing a pretty good job concealing the musk of natural body scent – but that, too, my sensitive nose picked up.

 

Because my sense of smell was highly acute; I could not only identify subtle smells but locate them with accuracy – there was no way I should have been able to pick any of that up, to such a fine degree. It should have been fascinating, but was actually disorienting. Every time I blocked out one smell, another replaced it. There were smells everywhere, wafting out of every corner. I could’ve driven myself mad investigating them all.

 

Watching me looking around, Stacy slid to her knees down in front on me.

 

“Yeah,” she said, “I guess this is your new home.”

 

I stared up at her.

 

“What? I have my own home.”

 

“Do you like it?”

 

“I can’t live here! You know that!”

 

“What do you think of me? – do you think we’ll be good friends?”

 

No!” I spluttered. “I made that clear last time we spoke!”

 

Then one of her enormous hands swept out and gently pushed me onto the ground. Before I could get to my feet again, she rolled me onto my back and began tickling my front.

 

“Stacy!” I grunted, thrashing around. “Stacy, listen to me! —just give me a second to let me work out what’s going on!”

 

“You’re such a talkative little thing, aren’t you?” she smiled down at me.

 

She couldn’t understand a word I was saying, I thought with despair. I must have sounded like I was making yowls and grunts, in other words, normal dog sounds.

 

“This is crazy,” she chuckled – you’re telling me, I thought bitterly – “I haven’t played with a dog for so long…”

 

“I’m not a dog!” I yelled, pushing and kicking at her hands, trying in vain to roll away, but I was still clumsy and uncoordinated from the anesthesia.

 

“But then, you’re not a dog…”

 

My eyes went wide. I stopped struggling.

 

“Yes, I’m not! That’s right!”

 

“…You’re something else, aren’t you? They made you specially for me with dog DNA. And human DNA. Should that be a little creepy? – That’s what it said in the pamphlet. That’s why you have little people legs, and – ” she pinched one of my thighs, “ – such big, intelligent, expressive eyes. But if that’s what’s keeping you from making me sneeze like crazy right now – and, you know, not like, go into a coma and die – then I’m okay with it.”

 

“What?” I said. How could it get worse? “You’re not cured? You were supposed to get an injection – not this massive freak-up!”

 

I could rant and scream all I wanted; she didn’t understand. From her point of view, I was just yipping excitedly. It didn’t help that my tail was still whipping back and forth like a little rotor, like it had a life of its own. She wasn’t even talking to me, I reminded myself. She was just talking out loud, more or less babyspeaking at me, saying whatever came to mind.

 

“Good thing you can’t talk,” she muttered above me as her bright glazed fingernails raked through my chest hair, “That would be just a little too creepy.”

 

Then she glanced at me briefly, serious. “That’s right, isn’t it? – you can’t talk? You have such an odd little bark. Almost like you’re trying to say something.”

 

“Ruff ruff,” I said miserably.

 

She giggled. “Of course not.”

 

Her hand withdrew then, and she lifted an information booklet in front of her face and flipped through the pages.

 

“Wow,” she said in an undertone. “It’s Brian’s DNA. He volunteered for it to be used…” she paused thoughtfully for a moment. “I don’t know how to feel about that…” She looked up, touched. “Oh, he shouldn’t have.”

 

“You don’t think I realize that now?!” I said, lying on the ground limply.

 

Stacy had taken out her phone and was keying something in.

 

“Okay, don’t race ahead of yourself, girl,” she muttered to herself. “This is still weird territory.”

 

Understatement of the year, I thought.

 

She held the phone to her ear for a long time, listening. It didn’t sound like the recipient was picking up.

 

“Come on, Brian…” she mumbled.

 

Wait, I thought, she was calling me? Well, of course I wasn’t going to pick up. I was right here in front of her. But then, where was my phone?

 

I almost wondered if I should be expecting Dr Ikeda to pick up, but of course he wouldn’t be stupid. If he had any brains at all he would have destroyed the evidence of this sordid experiment in an industrial grade furnace. My phone was probably in some dumpster behind the medical apartment, ready to rumble off in a dumptruck to landfill the next working day.

 

Finally, she hung up and lowered the phone, pursing her lips in mild frustration. I couldn’t help but wonder what she had planned to say. ‘Thank you for the dog’ – or something more? What did it matter now? To think that she might have changed her mind about me now only threatened to sow the wound with salt. She might just be amenable to dating me, and now I was in no state to enjoy it. Worst Christmas ever.

 

Putting her hands on her knees, she looked down at me eagerly.

 

“I got a name for you, puppy,” she said with a big smile. “What do you think of ‘Saint’?”

 

“I’m Brian,” I uttered in defeat.

 

“I had a dog a long time ago,” she went on wistfully, “called ‘God’ – funny name, I know. He was supposed to be called ‘Dog’, but I wrote it backwards on his registration. I was like, only three years old when we got him. I guess the allergy hadn’t triggered when I was that young, or something. I wanted to name you in honor of him. And it’s appropriate, seeing as it’s Christmas…”

 

Lifting me into her lap, she began to tell me about some story about God, some funny things he’d done as a puppy. God was the dog who’d been eventually taken away when her late-onset allergies kicked in.

 

The story poured out of her like a busted dam, as if the sight and feel of me unlocked a reserve of half- forgotten memories. Meanwhile, her hands ruffled my pelt in constant unconscious motions. I squirmed restlessly between her fingers and tried to creep away along the carpet but couldn’t get very far away before she would predictably scoop me up and return me to her lap, never letting me get further than an arm’s reach away. I didn’t feel very comfortable sitting still on her lap – I was still coming to terms with the fact that she was big enough to constitute a landscape to me; a ground that I could walk on, though a shifting one with its own intentions.

 

And she acted on her intentions without a moment’s forewarning. Whenever one of her hands passed over me to pat my head, I was apt to flinch. Her hands – particularly if her fingers were outstretched, seemed each large enough to knock my head off – maybe an exaggeration – but in my state of heightened anxiety anything seemed possible. She lifted me, shifted me about, and rolled me over like I weighed nothing.

 

At some point her account dwindled away. Then I heard her sniff and when I looked up again, her eyes were wet with tears. She caught my staring.

 

“I’m okay, puppy,” she muttered, pulling me up towards her chest in a hug. My face was practically pushed against her breasts and I could feel her heart pulsating against my cheek.

 

But it was was difficult to feel too turned on by this when I could her sniffling above me, and feel the occasional drop of a tear spotting onto the top of my head. I knew a little too intimately why she was crying, and my body went slack and I sighed. I felt like my chest had deflated like a balloon. I had hoped she would enjoy my gift. But this wasn’t just enjoyment, this was psychotherapy. This was almost a low grade childhood trauma, and now it was being cleansed and released. How could I hope to renege on this? It would be the loss of ‘God’ all over again.

 

But then, what about my mental needs? Sure, I’d caused this, but this was not the gift I’d intended. A living breathing little dog (or dog man, if you will) is a very different thing from a cold, inanimate, faintly sinister-looking syringe. And it was more than a dog. It was me. I couldn’t give her myself, and particularly not without my own consent. No one (Even Dr Ikeda, crazy or no) could seriously expect me to live like this. And for how long? The rest of my life? What had Dr Ikeda said; a dog was for life?  This was a serious breach of my own human rights.

 

But human rights were for humans. Did they even apply to me anymore?

 

Stacy bent her head and buried her nose into the back of my neck. She took a deep breath as if trying to inhale as much of my scent as possible. Her breath warmed my scalp.

 

“You smell so good, puppy,” she sighed, her lips massaging against my neck as she spoke, her breath fanning through my fur.

 

In fact, the scent of fruity soap had tailed me right out of the gift box, and now I realized the medical clinic must have sprayed me with some fragrance before packing me in.

 

“And I just can’t keep my hands off you,” she said, rustling her hands through my fur for the 1000th time. She had stopped crying. “You’re sooo cute and soft.”

 

She turned me around in her arms and started playing a game of trying to plant a kiss on my wet nose before I could pull my head away. Her glossy pink puckering lips expanded right before my eyes as they ventured for contact with my little black nose, but as my nose was so comparatively small, her lips often got much more of my face than intended.

 

A couple of times my eyelids ended up scrunched up under the pressure of the forceful twin plush lips, and my own slightly floppy black lips got snared by a wet smack, and then, with a small wet squish, released and withdrew. My heart raced with the notion that Stacy was kissing me on the lips (accidentally or not) – but tempered with the frustration my form disallowed any romantic reciprocation! This was almost worse than no kissing at all!

 

And it wasn’t consistently pleasant. What should normally have been nice was rendered intimidating by my tiny size. Having her enormous head dip right into my facial zone created a little of the panic of a plane flying too close overhead. An instinctual sense that human faces just didn’t normally zoom in that close unless you knew the person well – and particularly not as big as this one. I didn’t feel like I was getting kissed so much as being assaulted. My little furry legs licked pointlessly in mid-air, while my chest was captured by her powerful hands. My tail wagged stupidly, as if totally disconnected from my brain. Or maybe my tail was connected more closely to my subconscious than I’d liked to admit.

 

I found myself wondering how I ever possibly got myself in a position where I was actually trying to resist getting kissed by her. But here I was. Strange world.

 

All the tactile stimulation and struggling around soon wore me out – and I wasn’t exactly 100% full of energy in the first place, seeing as I was still wearing off the anesthetic. After finally managing to slither out of her clutches, I climbed up onto a nearby sofa and curled up to go to sleep. At least I didn’t need a blanket; my fur more than adequately kept me warm.

 

“You must be so tired after your trip,” Stacy said, crawling over to me and scratching my cheek gently. Then she stood and let me rest.

 

I slept for a long time. At times I woke up briefly to hear Stacy in another part of the house. Then it sounded like she had gone out in the car for a little while. Then she returned and put the TV on.

 

Finally, she came and found me again. I stretched and started to get up.

 

“Look what I got…” she said, taking a seat on the sofa beside me. Compared to my negligible weight, the cushion sunk down under her, and caused me to stumble over into her thigh.

 

“Oops, sorry little puppy,” she giggled “excuse me and my big butt.”

 

Sweeping a hand under me, she pulled me up onto her lap. The ease and comfort with which she did this was unsettling, fitting me into her hands like I was a favorite glove. She was holding something in her other hand. I looked on with dread. It was a little purple collar with diamond sequins. A little feminine for my taste. Then again, as a dog, the only taste I was expected to have was for bones.

 

Keeping me still with one hand, she secured the collar around my neck. I reached back for the latch but trying to open it with claws and puffy finger pads, rather than delicate fingerprints, was like trying to pick a tiny lock wearing novelty size clown gloves.

 

“Very handsome,” she said admiringly down at me. “And it’s not just fashionable. It’s got a practical purpose, as well.”

 

She held what looked like a handheld tape measure, but instead of extending out tape, there was a dog leash. It was one of those retractable leashes.

 

Oh no.

 

 

Before I could stop her, Stacey had reached behind my neck and clipped the leash to my collar.

 

“How about we go somewhere?” she suggested, getting to her feet. “I want to show you off to the neighborhood.”

 

She stood up, relaxing the lead a little.

 

“Come on, pup!” she grinned, clapping her hands together. “Pump those little legs!” Her clapping made the lead jerk slightly against my neck. To prevent her accidentally hanging me, I began to scurry after her giant sneakers, which launched into the air and clomped onto the floor at tenfold my physical capacity. Each step made the ground tremble under my tiny paws. I tried to keep some distance between myself and her, worried that either of those huge Nikes might accidentally trample my teeny toes. She frequently looked down at me, though, and seemed to have a good indication where I was from the give of the lead.

 

We came before her front door, the size of a building in itself. She opened it, sending a big cold gust of air sweeping against my fur. She stepped out and turned to look over her shoulder to see why I was hesitating. The world outside looked so big and intimidating. Everything expanded out, tenfold the size I was used to.

 

When I was very little I used to lie on my back and stare up at the sky, thinking it was so big and vast that it terrified me. Now that feeling of nausea swirled in the pit of my stomach again. It wasn’t just the sky that was miles above and around me in every direction – everything seemed miles long and miles away.

 

“Come on,” said Stacy, giving the lead a small tug. She bent over me, with her hands on her knees, smiling with exasperated amusement. “You’re so shy! Don’t worry I’ll protect you.”

 

A shiver rippled through my body. Then I followed her gingerly out into the cold air, and she shut the door behind me. I reacted with a flinch, not from fear, but the realization I couldn’t get back inside the house without her letting me in. It hit me like a blow; I was too small to operate doors.

 

I moved after over the front porch, feeling the gravel under my paw pads. Each one of Stacy’s catapulting footsteps totally dwarfed my own little mincing steps.

 

The two huge columns of her porch portico framed me on either side. She went nimbly down her porch steps, the lead stretched out straight as I stood in place on the top step, looking down with apprehension. Each of these dressed stone slabs came up to my middle. I couldn’t step down them so much as climb or jump down.

 

Stacy was at the bottom of the steps now. She turned around and jingled the lead to encourage me on. I had been relatively fit before, but at my current size, I felt like a weakling, having to pause to haul myself down each step. At the bottom, Stacy merely smiled down at me as if this was some kind of achievement, and then pivoting around, started into a steady stride down to the pavement past her house.

 

Attempting to follow her, I looked around the street and a gasp left my throat. The end of the street seemed to recede a million miles away. But Stacy’s sneakers were already scraping along the concrete assuredly steps ahead of me, my lead was being pulled up and away. Without any other choice I dashed after her, maintaining a safe distance a few metres (on my scale) from her feet. I walked behind her, rather than in front of her, like an actual dog. The sense of her giant feet in motion directly behind me – without me being able to see them – unnerved me too much. I needed to keep her feet in sight at all times.

 

We were moving too fast for me to devote much thought to the wider situation I was in. I just focused on keeping up with Stacy; shadowing her feet like an insect hovering around a lamp. Not that I had any choice, being practically tied to her by a rope.

 

The scenery rolled by. Mundane things stood out as being monstrous and peculiar. The overgrown grass of one lot was higher than my head. I shuddered at the thought of getting lost in it. A bee bigger than my nose droned past my ear. The pickets of a fence ran like Roman columns, way up over my head. Between them, I spied a garden hose sprawled on the lawn, thicker than my arm.

 

Being outside was terrifying, and yet weirdly exhilarating. I was tiny and vulnerable, but on the other hand, totally anonymous. I could behave however I wanted and no one would look twice. I could run around and roll on the ground. No one would recognize me. I was a total free spirit – except, of course, for the leash binding me to Stacy.

 

A cat twice my size was perched high above on a mail box. Its eyes followed me unblinkingly. I averted eye contact and kept looking straight ahead.

 

Outside the next house, kids were playing in the front yard, a boy and a girl. I watched their stamping feet with unease as they ran around. Turning to see me, they ran over, wanting to take a look at me.

 

“Puppy!” they yelled.

 

I pressed myself against Stacy’s ankles as their giant shoes came flying at me. Stacy’s warm hands curled protectively around me as she lifted me up. But instead of shielding me away from the children, she exposed me to them, offering me for petting. The kids hands eagerly spread over my body and face, cupped palms like opened umbrellas stroked all over my fur. Untrimmed nails raked through my fur roughly,

 

My short whiskers were pulled playfully, my spine pulled taut as my tail was tugged. Sweaty fingers tickled and poked my belly, and pinched my paws, and tweaked my ears. The girl ran her thumb back and forth over the bridge of my nose, while the boy scratched my chest.

 

I didn’t say anything, trying to just endure the treatment. I felt totally betrayed by Stacy, a specimen volunteered for a meat market, my body was squeezed and examined by their eager fingers like a fruit being assessed for ripeness.

 

“Be gentle,” was all she could say. “He’s very shy.”

 

It seemed to take forever, but finally, the invasive examination was over.

 

“Bye doggy!” the girl said, blowing me a kiss before the kids ran back onto their front lawn to recommence their game.

 

My trembling legs were put back down onto the cement, and my giant owner started off again down the path, and I, struggling to keep up, coming after her.

 

By the time we reached the end of the street, I was panting and wheezing and clutching my sides. Being pulled around on a leash was degrading enough, but my tiny legs just couldn’t keep up with Stacy’s tall, lithe, athletic ones.  

 

Luckily, Stacy stopped to observe me for a moment. Noticing my huffing, she crouched down, giving my head a gentle squeeze between her fingertips.

 

“You look tuckered out,” she said. “Have I been going too fast?”

 

She slowed her pace, monitoring me with more frequent downward glances.

 

Another problem: my bladder was pressing uncomfortably as I moved. I needed to pour out the dog bowl. Drain the fire hydrant. Water the garden. If I’d felt the need at home (oh, Jesus, was I referring to Stacy’s place as ‘home’ now?) I would have attended to it then, but the need had just sprung up on me now. When I got anxious, it was like my metabolism moved in fast forward. And being out in this wide open space made me anxious.

 

I looked around for a suitable place. My collar strained as Stacy continued to urge me forward. Jogging up to her ankle and pushed against her leg. She just glanced down at me and smiled.

 

I frowned – what, was I asking for permission? We were passing an empty lot – the size of a football field to me. The real estate here looked as good as any other place. Might as well just go for it.

 

I let out a final yip to tell Stacy to stop. She looked back and noticed me on the grass, turned away from her.

 

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

 

Resisting the socially ingrained habit telling me to seek privacy, I began peeing onto the grass.

 

“Oh, sorry, puppy,” Stacy muttered. “I forgot you stood up for that.”

 

For one absurd moment I actually had wondered if I should get down and lift a leg. No way! I still had some shred of dignity.

 

Over my shoulder, Stacy had now turned away, folding her arms and putting her fist to her mouth to stifle giggling.

 

“Oh, gosh, you hold it like a man and everything…”

 

Scowling, I finished and stepped back onto the path. Without hesitation, Stacy started into a leisurely stroll intending to carry on. But I was still worn out. My mouth was wide open and my tongue hung out. My chest was going in and out like a machine. The lead was chafing and tugging my neck increasingly often.

 

Feeling the resistance, Stacy stopped and looked down at me.

 

“Aww, do you need a rest, little guy?” she sighed. Next second, she had scooped me up into the air. Then she turned around and began to head back home, with me cradled against her chest. She walked briskly, and with every step she took, her bust bounced against my head. The cool air made her nipples stick out in points and a couple of times one of them jabbed me in the temple. Worse, I couldn’t get my tongue back into my mouth any more than I could stop breathing – the dog’s instinct to pant was too overwhelming – and as my head was held against her chest, my tongue inadvertently ended sliding up against one of her breasts. My heart raced and I felt a thrill up my spine as the hardened bud of her nipple ran against the flat of my tongue for a moment.

 

The most unnerving part was that she didn’t react to this at all. She was holding me in broad daylight and my tongue was on her nipple and she didn’t even blink.

 

I could scarcely believe the license I had as a dog…it was a vista of possibilities. I continued to pant against her chest, feeling the heavy mound bounce against my tongue.

 

She shifted me gently in her hands, unable to keep herself from sliding her fingers back and forth over my soft belly, and kneading her thumbs up and down my spine.

 

By the time we came to her house, my cheeks were burning. Luckily my white fur probably hid this. However, I could not hide the raging hard on between my legs. It was poking into the crevice underneath one of Stacy’s breasts, and being jolted a little every time her bust bounced on top of it.

 

It felt more pleasant than I was comfortable with, and by the time we came back into her living room, I was almost delirious from the sensation.

 

She probably had no idea what it was, if she could feel it. Maybe she assumed it was one of my limbs, or the tip of my tail.

 

“I think that’s enough for today,” she said. “You’re obviously not a racing dog,” her mouth quirked with a smile, “you’re more a lap dog. That’s okay with me!” She gave me a firm squeeze. “I prefer a dog who likes cuddles.”

 

She crouched, putting me on the ground and unclipped my lead. Then, with the lead in one hand, her eyes stopped on my groin, which was poking up at her.

 

It seemed silly to try and cover it with my hands – even sillier considering I was a dog. So I didn’t, I avoided her eyes, pretending I was unaware of it.

 

“Again?” she scoffed. “You’re really excited aren’t you?” She gave me a quick tickle under my chin.

 

I climbed onto the couch, drawing my legs up to hide myself. It felt lewd to point this thing at her from a dog’s body. Or half dog.

 

Satisfied to leave me there, she strode off into another room to put the leash away. I desperately needed to jerk off, but couldn’t; I didn’t want her to come back and find me in the act.

 

My frustrated mind turned to ways for getting myself out of this situation.

 

I always had Chad to reach out to. But I didn’t want him to see me like this. He would probably be disgusted. He wouldn’t think any girl was worth trading my humanity for.

 

Surely there was someone else who could help me?

 

I then thought of my ex-girlfriend, Lilith.

 

She was a little crazy and I didn’t have any pressing desire to see her again (which was why I’d been scouting the clubs in the first place) but we hadn’t split on totally acrimonious terms. At least she wouldn’t be disgusted to see me like this. She might think it was a little weird – or a lot weird – but she would help me, I was sure of it.

 

But first I’d need to get a hold of Stacy’s phone. Then I thought of her tears as she’d thought of ‘God’ and my stomach plummeted with guilt. What kind of Grinch rips a person’s cherished Christmas present away from them, so soon after receiving it? Never mind the present was me.

 

Maybe if Lilith could help me explain the situation to Stacy, she wouldn’t feel so bad. Lilith could probably have a girl to girl talk, appeal to her emotions, better than I could. And if Stacy consented to letting me go, then what? Would the medical clinic reverse the procedure? Was it possible? Only one way to find out.

 

Even if it was possible, I would have to live with the guilt of taking away Stacy’s joy. She was so excited to have me. I was the unexpected break in her lifelong dog drought.

 

And if reversing the procedure was not possible…I hated to think.

 

There were no easy solutions. I buried my face in my hands, feeling the fibrous paw pads against my fur, the slight prickling of my claws against my skin.

 

Stacy reappeared, with a stylish change of outfit. She wore a cute hooded jacket with fur lined hood, and her dark skinny jeans sleekly accentuated her long toned legs and buxom backside, igniting a spark of longing in the pit of my stomach. Her leather heeled boots, ending near the knee, clopped sharply as she came by the couch to give me a quick pat.

 

“I’m going out for a few hours, Saint. I’m going to a Christmas lunch with friends and family. I wish I could take you, but the restaurant doesn’t allow dogs. But I think you’ll be fine here on your own. Just don’t get into any trouble, okay? Just have a little sleep and I’ll be back before you know it.”

 

She bent to plant a kiss on my head, and I got a deep whiff of perfume that she must have only then applied. A thick lock of her hair dropped over her shoulder and draped over my face like a strip of silk. It sent shivers along my nose, which escalated rapidly into a sudden intake of breath and –

 

“AH-RUFF!”

 

“Bless you!” Stacy swept her hair back, giggling at my twitching sensitive nose, which was then stroked better by her thumb. Straightening again, she left the room.