Without overthinking it, I let my transformation take over completely. Within seconds, I’m on all fours, my snout fully extended, my entire body covered in short, pink-tinted hair.
I’m a pig.
A full, actual pig.
I haven’t shifted in years.
And it feels amazing.
I dive into the mud with a happy squeal, rolling onto my back and letting the cool, slick earth envelop me.
This is bliss—pure, unadulterated bliss.
I roll from side to side, coating every inch of myself in the glorious mud.
“Percy? What are you—” Prescott’s voice cuts off, and then I hear his delighted laugh. “Oh man, that looks AWESOME!”
There’s a splash as he exits the water, and within moments, he’s joined me in full pig form, smaller than me but just as enthusiastic, snuffling and rolling with abandoned joy.
“You two are ridiculous,” Ruby calls, but there’s laughter in her voice.
I peek through mud-crusted eyelashes to see her watching us from the water’s edge, arms crossed but smiling. Without warning, she shimmers and transforms, her body elongating, fur sprouting across her skin, until a sleek wolf stands where the female had been.
She approaches cautiously—wolves and mud aren’t the natural companions that pigs and mud are—but after a moment’s hesitation; she bounds in, playfully rolling in the mud and nipping at Prescott’s ear.
“This is completely undignified,” Hamilton announces from the water, but his pig’s ears are out.
I roll onto my back, snout pointed skyward, and let out the most contented pig-sigh I can muster. Then shift slightly back to my human form, “Who cares?” I call. “No one’s watching but us.”
“That’s precisely the—”
“Ham,” I interrupt, “for once in your life, stop calculating risks and rewards and just… be a pig.”
Ruby sits on her haunches and lets out a howl that sounds like a challenge.
Something flickers across Hamilton’s face—annoyance, resistance, and then, finally, surrender.
With a grumble that could mean anything, he wades out of the water, his movements becoming less bipedal with each step. By the time he reaches the mud, he’s a massive boar, larger than both Prescott and me, with impressive tusks and an air of dignity that somehow survives even his transformation.
He hesitates at the edge of the mud pit, clearly conflicted.
“Come on,” I encourage, flicking mud in his direction with my snout. “It’s good for the skin.”
With what can only be described as a resigned sigh, Hamilton steps into the mud—daintily at first, then with growing enthusiasm as the cool earth squishes between his hooves. Within minutes, he’s rolling alongside us, grunting with pleasure.
The four of us—three pigs and a wolf—spend the next hour in a state of animal joy. We chase, wrestle, wallow, and play with the kind of uninhibited freedom I’d forgotten existed. Ruby darts between us, her wolf form quick and graceful, occasionally letting out playful howls that echo across the lake.
In this moment, we aren’t business rivals.
We aren’t Porkwell’s and Wolfhart.
We’re just our true selves, enjoying the simple pleasures that have been coded into our DNA since the beginning of time.
And as I watch Hamilton—straight-laced, rule-following Hamilton—roll onto his back in the mud with his eyes closed in bliss, I know Ruby’s plan is working.
Maybe there’s more to Wolfstone than property value and development potential.
Maybe there’s something here worth preserving, not just for Ruby’s sake, but for our own.
