Excerpt of Greyhound George by Tony Cleaver

As was his custom in the mornings, George Potts staggered blearily out of bed and into the bathroom. Under automatic pilot, he would not really wake up until thoroughly immersed in the shower. On the weekends he allowed himself the luxury of wrapping himself in a towel and, returning to the bedroom, blundering about slowly cogitating over what he was going to do and thus what to wear for the coming day. This Saturday he observed his wife Annabel, still motionless, covered up in her bed. Although he guessed she was already awake, he surmised she was feigning sleep and waiting for him to leave the bedroom before she stirred. That being the case, George slowed everything down and shuffled around even more absent-mindedly before trying to find the appropriate garments to greet the day. He got as far as a pair of briefs before pausing in front of the full-length mirror and there deciding to take stock of what sort of man this was peering back out at him. Receding hairline – so far receded in fact that the main passageway was clear right over to the back. It was as if someone had passed the lawnmower through the hallway, leaving only a sliver of carpet on either side, and that was greying. Eyes – a sunken, lifeless, muddy blue. No sparkle evident. Teeth? George pulled back his lips to reveal a reasonable set in front but there were several gaps at the back, he knew. Looking down he saw several gangling, spidery, somewhat uncoordinated limbs, devoid of anything resembling muscle. There was a developing paunch. Not too noticeable until he turned sideways. Evidence of an overly sedentary existence. Let’s face it – not the most attractive physique. Perhaps his wife was right to resist the urge to turn round and concede she was in fact sharing this room, this house, this marriage with such a decidedly unattractive male. OK, George, he said to himself. Maybe you are a pretty repulsive specimen of the human race. So, he asked, is there anything I’ve got going for me? ***** But he could not go back to sleep now; his brain wouldn’t let him. Eyes barely focusing, his head complaining, George tried to disentangle himself from beneath the bedcovers and, in doing so, he only succeeded in finding himself on all fours on the carpet beside the bed. He looked round. He gasped. In the full-length mirror he caught sight of a greyhound in the bedroom! He uttered not a sound. It wouldn’t do to wake the wife, sleeping soundly in her own bed on the other side of the room. But what an animal looked back at him! Not a sandy-coloured bitch like Rosie but a taller, big-chested black-coated male with a long white bib running down his front. A handsome beast… though as he looked at him, George thought the dog’s eyes did look a little dazed. “Like my own,” he considered. “I wonder if it’s been at the whisky?” Did dogs drink spirits? George wondered as he looked down and prepared to get up from the floor where he had tumbled out of bed. He stopped moving. Staring down, instead of his arms holding him up, he saw two slim, black dog’s legs immediately below him. Dog’s legs with paws, not hands. Putting his head down, George looked back under his body and there, at the back of him were two more dog’s legs. With paws, not feet. George sat down with a plop and examined the mirror. There was the black greyhound sitting on its haunches, staring back. George put his head on one side, puzzled by this vision in front of him. The dog with dazed eyes put his head on one side also. George raised a front paw and scratched his head. So did the greyhound in the mirror. George said hello out loud to himself. Well, to his ears he reckoned it was hello but it actually sounded like: “Wuff!” “Hmmm,” said George to himself. “This is rich. Seems like I’ve changed into a greyhound overnight.” To say that this was a novel turn of events was something of an understatement. George had been drunk before. He had passed out before; but whenever he had come-to in the past he had always come-to as the same sort of person, all be it a little more dishevelled, as he had been earlier. He had never changed species before, at least he thought he hadn’t; his memory clearly was not at its best yet. George turned and examined himself more closely, trying to get his eyes to behave as they should. Yep, a tall, black dog…and very well-equipped by the sight of it, he reckoned, lifting a leg to display his masculine parts. He was pleased with what he saw. He slowly commenced some doggy exercises: bending down; sitting up; twisting this way and that; learning to control his various limbs, joints and muscles, seeing if any creaked and groaned like he was accustomed to in his human form. Great! Everything seemed to be in perfect working order. But enough of the self-examination; this was early morning and George needed to have a pee. Problem: how to do that?