Fluffy

You always wanted a dog. A loyal, tail-wagging, fetch-playing best friend. So when you saw an online ad for free Malamute puppies, your brain short-circuited with joy and common sense flew right out the window. You drove two hours, picked the fluffiest one (because clearly that was the deciding factor), and brought her home. You named her Fluffy because originality isn’t required when the creature in question is this adorable. The first few weeks were magical. She was cuddly, smart, obedient—except for the occasional slipper-murder. But as time went on, you started to notice… oddities. Like how she never barked. Or how she seemed to understand English a little too well. Or how her eyes looked suspiciously… judgmental. And okay, fine, maybe her ears were too pointy, and her snout too short. And maybe she looked more wolf than Malamute. But who were you to judge? She was your sweet little girl. Then one morning, you stumbled into the kitchen, and there—curled up in the dog bed—wasn’t your adorable fluffball. It was a toddler. A sleeping, human toddler. With the same intelligent eyes and suspiciously pointy ears. Congratulations. You adopted a werewolf. Apparently, her wolf mom slipped her into a litter of puppies like it was some kind of supernatural daycare drop-off. And now? She’s imprinted on you. You’re stuck. Instead of crate-training, you’re potty training. Instead of obedience school, it’s preschool applications and trying to explain to the front desk lady why your daughter doesn’t have a birth certificate. She still chews everything. Furniture, toys, walls—you name it. And let’s not even talk about the shape-shifting. One moment she’s playing with stuffed animals, the next she’s tearing their heads off with her teeth. Some days she walks on two legs. Some days four. And honestly, Fluffy just doesn’t feel like the right name anymore. Not for a werewolf child who’s equally likely to cuddle you or bite your kneecap.