The sensual curves of Angela (My dad's secretary) wind their sinful way across my heaving chest. She looks at me, her deep blue eyes batting those heavily mascarra'ed lashes. Slowly she leans down, her full red lips parting ever so slightly. I lie back in languorous ecstasy - breathing hard. Ever so gently she nibbles at my ear. Her hand, so soft and delicate on my naked flesh, seems to hesitate. "Stop that!" I laugh as she tickles me with something furry. My neck rises to the occasion, playing goose bumps up and down its length as she tickles me. I open my eyes in shocked delight - only to find that she is a rabbit. I burst into laughter - this is a dream! But inside of me is an urge. Ancient and instinctual. I must eat the rabbit. She bounds off, her playgirl bunny tail cotton candy to my eyes. I give chase, leaping from the bed - no not anymore - from the grassy patch - and give chase. I sore with the speed of the devil. "George! Wake up - go see who's at the door!" suddenly screams my mother's voice. The rabbit dissolves into the white of the real world as my dreams are lapped up into consciousness. I blink and look around. When did I fall asleep on the dining room floor? From under the table I look up at my mother. Dude I can see up her dress. That's gross. I cover my face with my hands. And almost knock myself out. My nose is huge and my hand - Oh my god - it's a paw. What the fu - ? “- George - go see who's outside you lazy mutt." She says again. She uses the broom to tap me in the tush. I glare at her. She seems uninterested and moves off humming like Mary Poppins on speed. Slowly I get up. I look out - don't want to bump my head on the table. But I'm standing up - or at least as up as I can get. And who's George anyway? I'm Kevin. George is the name of our dog. He's such a dumb-ass. He's a what-you-ma-call-it. Thingy. Drooped eyed, soppy eared, baggy assed thing. Basset. He's a basset hound. Why's she calling me George? I look down. And back at the house from five inches above the floor. I have a dog’s body. I look again. Yup - four droopy legs, paws and yup no bal- "- Go on! Get out, I'm cleaning!" She hit me again! I amble out, well I mooch out. Four legs. I'm the dog. I'm George. But how? One moment I was with Angela long legs and now I'm Droopy George. What is happening? Maybe outside will change things. Fresh air, clean bright sunshine. No mother. Casually I amble towards the door. Four legs are pretty difficult to control. Thanks to waxed wooden floors in the hall I slip and slid most of the way till I bang into the frame. Ow. "Bark! Bark bark bark!" I mean - You damned mother fu - "George - don't bark inside." Says mom as she opens the door. Suddenly all thoughts of trying to swear flee my brain. Smells. So many smells. And they come from outside. Dude its like being - being in a Super bowl game, with everything happening around you. All alive, all being. Slowly I wonder outside, a silly grin plastered across my jowls of doggyness. Like a drunken ballerina I totter from flower to tree, pirouette from tree to letter box, waltz to the nearest clump of grass, swooning in puppy heaven. The mailman was here - I recognize – remember? his scent. So was Aunt Mavis - she walked here. "George? What's wrong with you?" Asks mother from the door. "Bark!" I meant to say: Nothing. Just smelling the neighborhood mom. The sun shines brightly and I have an urge to sit and just soak up all the sights and smells. I curl up in the brightest hottest spot, the warmth slowly tanning my fur. I look around. Suddenly I see something - my prized possession, and it's only inches from my nose. "George - Don't do that in public! Dogs!" Screeches mother as she turns to seal the door and the human world from the joy of a dog on the lawn...