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This had not been a good week for Stanford Pines.
Not least because he’d woken up one morning and found that he’d been turned into a dog.
He had only the faintest idea of how this had happened, but he suspected it was due to his faint, disjointed memories of getting into an argument with a self-proclaimed wizard one night in a bar and saying some things that in hindsight, he probably shouldn’t have. He didn’t remember everything that had happened, but at some point there’d been a flash of golden light, and when he’d woken up, hungover and thirsty, it had been in his new form.
Unfortunately, while a little part of him was thrilled that this encounter had confirmed his hopes that wizards, and by extension magic and curses, were real, it would have been more beneficial to his research if they hadn’t happened to him .
Or at least, if they’d happened to him while giving him a form still capable of speech, or even of having opposable thumbs.
As if it wasn’t insulting enough that he’d been turned into a dog, he wasn’t even in Nowhair (the town in which Backupsmore was situated) anymore; instead, as far as he could tell, he was somewhere in Chicago, no doubt also courtesy of the (extremely, ridiculously touchy) wizard.
Fiddleford, and possibly even Emma May, had to at least be wondering what had happened to him by now. If only he could get to a phone!
…And figure out a way to use it.
And convince Fiddleford that it was him-maybe bark out an SOS and hope he stayed on the line long enough to realize that it was Morse code?
Ford groaned, and continued pacing and trying to think.
At least he hadn’t been turned into something utterly humiliating, like a chihuahua; he wasn’t sure what breed he was, but it was large and slender, with wiry black fur and paws that probably would have been massive even without the extra toes.
Ford’s size meant that most people gave him a bit of a wide berth as he wandered, which was both a positive in that nobody tried to hurt him, and a negative in that nobody was eager to help him either. It probably didn’t help that he was decidedly scruffy.
There has to be another wizard somewhere around here, Ford thought, sniffing the air (and making a mental note about how vastly his sense of smell had improved). Or a witch, or someone who might recognize what’s wrong and can help change me back. Heck, I’d be willing to go on an epic quest for them if it would mean putting an end to this. If I ever see that confounded wizard again, I’m going to-
Before Ford could decide what he was going to do to him, he was caught off guard by a sharp smell in the air.
A thick, coppery kind of smell that made his fur bristle in alarm…even as, to his slight horror, another part of him brightened up and started drooling.
And it was coming from a nearby alley, along with sounds that his sensitive ears recognized as those of a struggle.
Ford didn’t really stop to think about whether it was a good idea to investigate; he just did it (in other news, the Pope turned out to be Catholic, and an interview with a bear confirmed that yes, they do in fact crap in the woods).
He loped to the alley’s entrance and cautiously peered around the corner, not sure what he expected to find, but knowing it wouldn’t be pleasant.
Sure enough, three brutish men had managed to back a somewhat smaller one into a corner, and appeared to be trying to knock him to the ground. Based on the amount of blood Ford could smell on the thugs, he was putting up a heck of a fight; even as he watched the mêlée, there was a loud thump mixed with a crack and one of them fell back, clutching his nose and swearing. But he could tell that the one being ganged up on was getting tired, and he was also outnumbered, so the odds of him getting out of this alive were…unlikely.
And then Ford heard a schlick noise, as the biggest attacker pulled something from his belt.
Something long and sharp, and that flashed in the light.
Ford didn’t realize he’d barked out a warning until the man with the knife whirled around.
His eyes widened when they landed on him. “What the bleep ?”
For a moment Ford stood frozen, unsure how to proceed; he wasn’t the fighter, that was always S…someone else, he was better when it came to fighting with his words, or from a distance.
He settled for taking a step forward, slowly, and trying to figure out how to growl; but apparently his dog side didn’t even have to think about it. A deep, rumbling noise, the kind that sounded like it would end with his teeth in someone else’s throat, came churning out of his mouth as he stared steadily at the man with the knife, ears flattening against the sides of his head.
All eyes were on him now, and they looked more than a little terrified.
Good .
Ford allowed the growl to rise in volume, and stepped closer, slowly and with purpose.
The man whose nose had been smashed broke first; he let out a small whimper and took off like he had wings on his shoes, sprinting for the exit.
Ford didn’t waste energy chasing after him. He just turned his glare on the two remaining thugs, trying to send the message for them to beat it too.
Behind them, their intended victim tried to take advantage of the situation to slip away. Unfortunately, before he could get enough free space to make a run for it, his foot knocked against a broken bottle, and drew the bigger man’s attention back to him.
“Oh no you don’t!”
The man grabbed his shirtfront, slamming him into the wall, and started to raise the knife.
He wasn’t allowed to finish raising it.
It was pure instinct. One second Ford was at one end of the alley, realizing that this monster was about to stab or cut someone else’s throat; the next he was at the man’s side, jaws clenched around his arm and yanking him to the ground.
The thug screamed, loud and shrill, and the smell of his terror hurt Ford’s nose. Ignoring it, he gave the arm a hard shake until he dropped the knife, and then forced his jaws to unclench, despite how disturbingly good the taste of blood was in his mouth.
The thug managed to get to his feet, whimpering and clutching his arm, and stumbled for the exit; Ford saw the other one already at the end of the alley. He shot a final warning bark over his shoulder after them, ignoring the canine desire to chase after the frightened running things, and instead turned to check on the one he’d saved.
For the first time, he got a good look at his face-
-and for a moment, both thoughts and instincts screeched to a halt.
Even though he hadn’t seen it in almost three years, he knew that face as well as his own, pun completely intended.
When the moment of shock faded, the first thing Ford registered as he looked at his long-lost twin was, …He’s thinner than I remember.
It was a well-known fact in the Pines household, much to their mother’s exasperation and amusement and their father’s just plain exasperation, that Stanley loved to eat. It was one of the easiest ways to tell him and Ford apart when they reached their teens: all you had to do was measure belly size, and choose whichever one was bigger.
But now Ford half suspected that had he been in human form, he would have actually been the one with more body fat; for heaven’s sake, even Stan’s face looked sunken in. It didn’t help that the dirty red jacket he was wearing was at least a size too large, so it almost looked like he was wearing a poncho.
His hair had grown out into a greasy, matted mess that complemented the stubble on his chin in the worst way, and his eyes had developed dark, baggy circles under them that were a rival for Ford’s before he’d had his coffee in the morning. He smelled like blood and sweat and dirt and cheap aftershave and even cheaper alcohol. And he was wearing a set of bloodstained brass knuckles clenched around his trembling fist.
Just what kind of life was his brother
living
? What had happened to his promise to come back with millions
and make Ford sorry he’d-
His expression must have come off as more hostile than he’d intended, because Stan blanched and slowly started trying to inch to the side again.
But before he could get too far, Ford stepped into his path.
“H-h-hey, um, you really don’t wanna piece of me,” Stan stammered; one hand hesitantly rose, pointing in the direction his attackers had fled. “Those guys are the better option, trust me.”
Despite himself, Ford snorted; slowly he lowered himself into a sitting position, in the hopes that that would help him appear less threatening.
Logically, a little part of him felt like he ought to leave. His work was done, he’d successfully protected his brother from whoever those brutes were, and it wasn’t like he was in any hurry to spend a lot of time in Stan’s presence; the memory of a crumpled bag of toffee peanuts still stung every time he remembered it.
But on the other paw, he desperately needed help in changing back, and if he could just convince Stan that it was really him…that shouldn’t be too hard, even if he wasn’t as actively invested in studying weirdness as Ford was, he had always seemed open to believing in it.
Besides, Stan owed him.
And more than that, despite himself Ford wanted to know what was going on. Why had Stan been in that kind of danger in the first place? It wasn’t like their childhood, where yes, he’d been mouthy enough to get in fistfights multiple times but had never involved weapons as far as he knew; those men had wanted to murder him. Why?
Ford knew that he was far more likely to get answers if he stayed with Stan, and somehow managed to convince him that he was friend instead of foe.
Let’s see…what do dogs who are friendly do?
Even though his personal experience with dogs was limited, once again his body seemed to know what to do: it tilted its head to one side, perking up its ears, and Ford faintly felt his tail thump the ground a few times.
Sure enough, the panic and fear left Stan’s eyes, replaced with confusion.
Ford dared to degrade himself further by allowing the tip of his tongue to dangle out of the corner of his mouth.
That finally got a soft half-chuckle out of his brother.
“...If I get you some dinner, you promise you won’t eat me?”
Ford’s stomach grumbled as if in agreement, and he nodded.
“Great; I know a place that’s close by. C’mon.”
Stan headed for the exit to the alley. But before he reached it, he froze and slowly turned back to stare at Ford with wide eyes.
After a few seconds, he shook his head and started walking again, rubbing his face and muttering something to himself.
Ford trotted after him, curious as to what kind of place he had in mind for dinner.
It turned out to be an Italian restaurant a few blocks away; one of those cozy little out-of-the-way places with a red, green and white striped canopy in the front and a few little chairs and tables set up under it.
But instead of heading for either the door or one of the tables, Stan slipped around behind it to where the dumpster was.
Stanley, what on earth are you doing? Ford marched after him-and his confusion and alarm only increased when Stan boosted himself up onto the edge of the dumpster, before jumping in!
Stan?!
“Ssh!” Stan poked his head out and put a finger to his lips. “Keep your fur on, just lemme-” He ducked back in, and there was a faint ripping noise; the air was quickly filled with the smells of oregano, tomatoes and parsley.
Ford pushed himself up onto his hind legs, grateful once again that the blasted wizard had at least had the courtesy to turn him into something big, and put his front ones on the edge of the dumpster, allowing him to peer inside.
Stan was sitting next to a large trash bag, which he had ripped open, and was now stuffing handfuls of leftover spaghetti into his mouth .
Do you know how much potential bacteria is in there?!
Stan raised his head and gave him a stern look. “Don’t judge, okay, you wouldn’t believe how many jerks throw out food that’s still good.”
Yes, but it’s in the trash ! It’s been contaminated! Why can’t you just-
And then the nasty thought he’d been trying to ignore came in with a vengeance: If Stan could afford to pay for food, do you think he’d be dumpster diving? Do you think he’d look the way he does, or that he’d have men chasing him down in alleys and threatening him with knives?
A large, sauce-covered meatball was placed on the edge of the dumpster next to one of his paws.
“Here ya go.” Stan gave him an uncertain, oddly hopeful smile. “Hold on a sec, I’ll see if there’s anymore.” And he split the bag open a little more, sorting through the pile of pasta.
Even though he was suddenly a lot less hungry, due to the sinking feeling that he’d horribly misjudged Stanley’s situation and had no idea how to fix it…Ford craned his neck and munched down the gift.
He accepted three more after that, until the back door opened, and the shriek of a waitress taking out the trash prompted them to flee.