My Life as a Teenage Were-Corgi

Photo by Brianna Santellan on Unsplash

Being a were-beast really bites. Literally. But it’s even worse when you’re cursed to turn into something lame. I could’ve been any number of cool things wolf, panther, heck my buddy Ben is a were-orca. Granted, it’s a pain finding a large body of water when it’s his “time of the month.” The timeshare at SeaWorld helps, though. Me—I’m a were-corgi. That’s right a stinking corgi. I hate corgis, will until the day I die. Which, considering I’m now functionally immortal, is going to be a long time. Someone shoot me already, or stake me, or whatever you do to kill a were-corgi. Could be worse, though. My cousin Steve is a were-goldfish. Don’t ask how he managed to get bit by a fish—he doesn’t like to talk about it.  

Were genes are pretty common these days with “1 in 20 teens affected” at least that’s what the info brochures say. Problem is, you don’t know you’ve got it till something bites you and you turn into it. Thus, how my neighbor’s love of an ill tempered corgi turned into me shedding every month.

There’s all kinds of services and support groups for us, but they’re mostly headed up by well-meaning were-adults. Apparently talking about how it was so much worse in their day and how they almost killed a friend or a pet or whatever is supposed to be helpful. Yeah, well I shed all over, bark at everything, pee on the carpet, and chew up my sister’s dolls. I don’t need a support group, I need obedience school. Plus it’s kinda hard to relate to people who turn into stuff that eats what you turn into. Mom makes me go, though. She also makes me write these idiotic blurbs about how I feel. I feel it’s stupid. Does that count? I guess I should finish this ‘cause I’m due to change any minute and corgis can’t tyhgj po; dfc

Yes, I wrote a fic about a were-corgi. I am OK with this.
~ A.J. ~


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