“See you in half an hour, ladies,” George called out mischievously as he escaped up the nearest dune. “Behave yourselves and keep off the whisky!”
The sun was rising; as he topped the first bank the breeze was in his face and there was not a cloud on George’s horizon. His spirits rose and they were not alcoholic spirits. George plodded on towards the sea then came down off the sand dunes and onto a firm expanse of beach that the receding tide was spreading out in front of him. There was no one else around. He let Rosie off her leash and watched her go bounding off at top speed, only to come pattering to a halt some fifty yards away, then turn and come cantering back, her mouth open and smiling, her tongue out, her eyes shining at him in the sun.
Yes, George thought, enjoy it, Rosie. This is the life – I almost wish I could join you! He had to shake his head free of such thoughts, however. He had to make the most of what he had and not wish for any other life. As it happened, he thought, look where he was and who he was with now. Not such a bad set up at all. He just had to keep his emotions tightly under control every time he looked at Carol and her friend. He swore they became more alluring and attractive every time he saw them and Carol in particular had a way of arousing his hormones that was especially discomforting. Was it obvious? He tried not to think of her. She was more dangerous to his mental health than a barrel of malt whisky.
Rosie was bouncing around him and what with the glorious weather, his desire to empty his thoughts and this affectionate greyhound encouraging him, George almost broke into a gallop himself. What was becoming of him – this dog and her owner were certainly brightening up his life. He looked around and when he was sure there was no one else in sight he did allow himself a little run. It didn’t last long however – he was soon out of puff. Bent over and with his chest heaving he decided that that was enough of exercise – it was time to return to the picnic and his two female escorts.
George laboured his way back up over the sand dunes to where he and Rosie had started out. It was a bit of a sun trap between the dunes where the sea breeze couldn’t reach and that was why he came stumbling in surprise upon two languorous lovelies stretched out on blankets and both wearing, if that was how it could be described, the briefest of swimwear.
He collapsed down in a heap on a patch as far away as possible from them.
“Heavens above, girls, this is too much! Too much flesh entirely. I might be an old man but I’m not yet altogether past it and what you are doing to my blood pressure looking like that is positively murderous. Where’s the bottle?” George dived into the nearest bag.
Carol twisted several acres of terrifying nakedness around and glared at him. “Don’t you dare, George! If it’s blood pressure that’s bothering you then downing that whisky will only make it worse. And don’t be such an old fossil. Sally and I are only sunbathing.”
“Yes, George, don’t worry,” Sally piped up. “This is not an invitation to an orgy. You can keep your trousers on!”
“Good God!” George saw another yard of flesh turning towards him. He hurriedly looked away and fished out a plastic cup to accompany his bottle. He splashed out three fingers of Ardbeg, 10-year-old Islay, and glugged it down.
“Aah!”
Sacrilege, he thought, swigging this stuff back and barely tasting it. But his immediate need for semi-comatose dizziness was greater than his desire to appreciate the finer points of Scotland’s greatest export. George sank back, staring skywards. He reached for something, anything, to cover his eyes.
Carol looked at him. He is a darling, she thought. But utterly hopeless. She thought better than to tell him that he was at that very moment blindly fumbling with several items of her discarded clothing to place over his head.
George meanwhile was quickly shutting the lights out and attempting to switch off consciousness as a means of regaining some modicum of composure in the presence of these two fatally irresistible goddesses. He focused on savouring the last drops of malt whisky that remained on his tongue – a much safer direction of thoughts than to consider what lay outside just a few feet away. Then he felt Rosie come down and nuzzle beside him. Good grief! That could not help but be disturbing in his present hypersensitive state – a warm body too close which only reminded him of two other warm bodies nearby. He groaned aloud. What was going on? Even his nostrils seemed to be full of the aroma of femininity; he really must get a grip…O blessed darkness…swallow me up, he prayed.
It seemed like only seconds later when George felt Rosie’s nose exploring his face. She licked him. George kept his eyes shut. Not yet, he thought, let me doze a bit longer yet.
Then he felt Rosie examining another part of his anatomy altogether. That was too much – his masculine parts. He quickly told Rosie to lay off – this was an altogether unwarranted intrusion into his personal belongings.
Feeling somewhat put out, George grumpily came round to see two bikini-clad beauties staring down at him – their features expressing surprise, concern, even amazement. He wasn’t sure what.
“Are you seeing what I’m seeing, Sally,” asked Carol, “or am I dreaming?”
“Nope. I’m seeing the same.”
“And are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Yep, I think so”
“It is George, isn’t it?”
“Dunno”
“George in disguise?”
“It’s a very good disguise…”
Greyhound George jumped up. Rosie was again sniffing his hind quarters in great interest.
“Rosie! Gerrof! I won’t tell you again – that is inadmissible evidence!” George was quite firm – in his dog-speak, that is. Rosie whimpered and backed off, quite hurt.
“I say,” said Carol, “he’s quite argumentative, isn’t he? Poor Rosie!”
“That fits,” said Sally. “It’s got to be George.”
Carol stooped over, showing a good part of her boobs. “Are you George?” she enquired of this big, white-bibbed, black greyhound.
George wasn’t sure where to look, or how to react, given this provocation. He did his best not to blush.
“If you’re George,” Sally volunteered, “stand on your back legs and clap your front paws!”
George gave her a withering look and held his nose in the air. He was not some performing goon in a circus. He barked “NO!” in a most forceful manner and shook his head.
Both girls laughed.
“I don’t think he liked that request, Sal,” said Carol.
Carol looked at George again. “If you are George, then prove it to us somehow…”
George couldn’t stop goggling at those glorious golden globes that were now being upended in front of him. He might be a dog at this moment but he realised his human and masculine sensibilities were still very much present in his loins. He wanted to put his head in the sand – in fact he looked round at the nearest dune and promptly did so.
“What is he up to?” wondered Sally.
“I haven’t the faintest idea.” Carol looked similarly perplexed.
Of course not, thought George, half buried in sand dune. Women never have a bloody clue as to what they do to us males. But when he had cooled down sufficiently, he returned to face his audience and then he drew a line in the sand. At least it looked like a line in the sand to the two girls until this marvellous creature started drawing others. In front of their startled eyes, this is what they saw the greyhound drawing out:
I’M GEOR…
He couldn’t finish. The two girls shouted out simultaneously: “It’s George!”
George stood aside from his artwork and graciously lowered his head. He bowed doggily. His two admirers clapped excitedly.
“Oh, George, I just knew there was something wild about you!” Carol was in ecstasy. “And no wonder Rosie felt that too! How long have you been, er, shape-changing like this?”
George shrugged his shoulders. How to answer this? He trotted over and scratched out his last effort and then drew:
2 WEEKS?
Sally and Carol looked at each other and both immediately started talking animatedly about what this latest signal meant. Two weeks? Why, that meant dog and man had only been changing one into the other since they had got to know him! And the mysterious greyhound at St Bart’s was George, all along! How fabulous! The pyjamas still needed explaining away but they would surely get to the bottom of that soon enough and wasn’t all this so exciting…
George soon got fed up with this. Why did women have to go into a gaggle and talk about everything and examine every single little detail of everybody else’s lives? He wouldn’t stay here listening to this gossip any longer. He was off!
As before, George was exhilarated by the explosive power of his own musculature. Boom! It didn’t matter that the sand dunes tried to slip and slide under his pounding feet – his touch was so rapid that he was up and over them and down on to the beach the other side in a matter of seconds. He streaked like a rifle bullet in a straight line for the sea, his spine flexing and springing back to lend extra power to his long legs. In the time it took for his female admirers to realise he’d gone, he was splashing about contentedly in the waves. Bliss!
A few seconds passed before Rosie caught up with him. She wanted to play as well. George felt a little guilty at his treatment of Rosie. He was one of her kind now, after all. He splashed over.
“Sorry, Rosie,” he called out. “Sorry if I was a bit short with you just then but you know it takes a bit of getting used to – these sudden changes I go through.”
Rosie’s big eyes looked at him reproachfully. She had always been quite a quiet animal, a dog of few words, as George now realised. He apologised again.
“Don’t look at me like that. I said I’m sorry…”
“OK,” Rosie replied slowly. “Just don’t snap at me again…”
Oh bloody hell, thought George, this one’s a very sensitive female. However am I going to cope with all these different women? He came over and touched noses – hoping to show he wasn’t such a heartless macho after all.
Rosie licked him back. She was clearly interested in him. This was a puzzle for George and he had simply to figure this out as soon as possible – was he a man or dog? He walked around Rosie as she walked around him. What was he feeling?
George noticed the two girls running towards them as he did this. What was he feeling about them as well? He didn’t get much chance to decide before Carol launched into him.
“George! Now behave yourself! I know what dogs do and it looks like you’ve started doing it. So stop! Right now!”
George stopped and sat on his haunches, holding his head on one side as he looked quizzically at Rosie’s owner. What was she getting all heated about?
“Don’t you look at me as if you don’t know what I’m talking about. You behave, hear me? The fact is, whatever you look like at the moment, I can’t help but think of you as a lovable though cantankerous man of mature years who I positively adore…and I will not have an old dog like you mounting my beautiful bitch. Do you hear? No way! That would be positively bestial…not to mention the biological consequences would be quite unpredictable, indeed unthinkable. So lay off her! Bad dog! Bad man! Bad whatever!”
George laughed. He looked at Rosie. She wasn’t laughing, poor Rosie.
George got up and looked at the two women who were now standing before him. Yes…he still felt decidedly human as soon as he looked at their long, luscious bronze limbs which, from his lowdown point of view, seemed to lead unerringly to the Place of No Return. He broke out in a sweat and then gave voice to his feelings in as unmistakeable way as he could. He told Carol that her sandy-coloured hound was safe from his advances – here he apologised yet again to Rosie – but just be careful with how you dress yourselves and how you handle me! I’m still a spirited and hot-blooded male whether in a somewhat worn and frayed human body or in that of a racing greyhound in his prime! He barked it out as urgently as he could – and then dashed into the nearby surf to cool off.
Rosie and the two semi-clad goddesses looked at him.
“Did you get that, Carol?” Sally asked.
“Not sure, Sal” she replied. “He certainly knew what I was talking about. I think he was saying what he’s been saying all along. You know: ‘Leave off and let me alone,’ like. As if he can look after himself…which of course we know he can’t”
Sally and Carol both looked thoughtful, watching Greyhound George prance about in the waves. This was quite an experience – a relationship which was very much a first for them both; for anyone, indeed.
“Tell you what, Carol,” said Sally, “this has got to be the most challenging case study in psychology that anyone, anywhere has ever faced.”
“Mmm,” agreed Carol, “it would make our fortunes and earn us professorships if we could ever make any sense of it. Not that anyone would believe us…”
Greyhound George raced past, doing his best to splash the two of them.
Chapter 8
It was time to eat. George was feeling famished, what with a sudden change of metabolism and a lot of running in and out of the waves. He trotted off in the direction of where they had set out the picnic and trusted that the others would follow. Of course they did – all three females were drawn to him like a magnet. George turned his head to look back at them as he topped the first dune – this was an extremely satisfying and confidence-boosting experience. He had never had pretty females – of any species – running after him in his life before. Yep, he thought, a dog’s life ain’t so bad.
Approaching the picnic blanket he saw a number of seagulls circling around and dropping down to examine the unattended store of food. What a bloody nerve! Typical opportunists on the look-out for what they could steal, he thought. He was down there in an instant, snapping his jaws at the closest.
A chorus of squawking erupted as he leapt perilously close at one or two birds. A wild flapping of wings carried them all away, however, before he could do any damage.
“Hey! Keep off, you big brute,” one screamed at him with a distinctive naval accent. “Plenty enough food here for everyone, don’t you be so greedy!”
“You’ll be food for me if you get any closer!” George retorted. He wondered if seagulls tasted anything like chicken. Possibly. With his speed of attack he’d nearly got one – but then reckoned it would most probably be a mouthful of feathers that would be all he’d get. He flopped down on the blanket and looked at them, wheeling above and crying out in frustration at being denied their goal. Funny, he thought. One minute I’m feeling distinctively human urges; the next I’m being decidedly doggy and trying to catch seagulls. A confusing psyche; though he guessed matters would resolve themselves in time.
Meanwhile, where was the food? He put his nose into the first bag. A variety of packed meats, cheeses, bread and fruit assaulted his senses. No wonder those seagulls were interested. He guessed animal olfactory senses were more attuned to food than humans. He knew only too well what his human senses were attuned to in present company. Best to forget that. He turned his attention to a particularly attractive package of cold meat. Oooh! It practically stood up and talked to him. Oh dear, he thought, I hope those girls hurry up. It wouldn’t do to start ripping open packages before they get here. He could imagine their reaction.
Rosie came first, soon followed by the two girls: all delightfully leggy creatures. Stop thinking like that! George opened his jaws and let his tongue hang out. He didn’t know what, or who, he wanted to eat first.
“George is hungry for something,” Sally remarked, sitting down with a bag at her feet.
Too right, thought George. Oh dear! I’ve really got to control myself!
“Here, George, try a frankfurter while we unwrap the rest.” Sally proffered a waving wand of processed meat in his direction. George took the sausage delicately in his teeth, carefully avoiding contact with the fingers that held it, then tossed it into the air and caught it with a clack of his jaws as gravity returned it t
o him.
“Bravo!” cried Sally.
“You old show-off, George,” laughed Carol.
George champed the sausage down and looked at her, his eyes twinkling. Well, he tried to explain, I’ve got to exercise my senses of coordination, my new complex anatomy. It was thoroughly rejuvenating, finding himself in a highly responsive, super-fit body – albeit one of canine inheritance.
The meal passed extremely pleasantly – the two girls fussing over the two greyhounds, especially one of them: their new, unexpectedly transformed guest. For George, he relaxed totally. There was no longer the battle of the sexes going on – he didn’t have to be on his mettle every second, retorting to every gibe they threw at him. In fact, in his doggy form, he was able to lap up the evident affection they felt for him as they acquainted themselves with an unthreatening, generally co-operative and really quite handsome greyhound that could not answer back.
A bowl of water was put down for the two dogs to share. George looked mournfully up at his providers. Nothing else?
Carol waved a finger at him. “If you think we’re putting whisky down for you, you can think again!” she warned. “Your bodyweight index is way below what it was when you were human so you’ll get drunk even quicker.”
George yapped in disagreement.
“Don’t try and argue,” she smiled. “I know your internal digestive system must have got used to the quantities of alcohol you abused it with as a man…but you’ve got a different body now. Besides,” and here Carol rammed on the whisky cork as hard as she could, “with no hands, no chance now!”
Greyhound George Page 8
