The snow wasn't the worst part of his night. Only the day before, the man had relished in the sound of his leather belt lashing against the thin skin of the hound his late wife left behind. Whenever he experienced the slightest twinge of annoyance, he would take it out on the animal. The man was more of a beast than any dog.

He expected to wake up on the thin mattress laid out on his father's trailer floor, not in the dirty snow after the sun had gone down. His first move was to lift himself on his arms, but he found that he had none. Looking down, he saw that his limbs were emaciated. They were covered almost completely by thin, coarse hair, with patches of bruised skin peeking out. It took the man far longer to balance on his limbs than it had on even his drunkest nights.

A wounded howl forced its way out of his throat. He hadn't known humans were able to make those noises. Shock hit him harder when he realized that they could not. Despite his lifetime of sins, he made silent pleas to every god he could think of. He left bloody pawprints in the snow as he walked in no discernible direction. The world was so much bigger from down low.

He heard the familiar thud of heavy boots against metal steps and, for only a second, thought his prayers might have been answered. That hope only lasted until he saw the shotgun. He looked up at the man, desperate for his father to recognize him.

“Goddanged mutt,” his father spat, cocking the gun in his arms.

The man couldn’t move an inch as he watched himself, his human self, flick on the trailer lights through the window.

“Useless,” The man’s father muttered cursing as he lifted and aimed his weapon, “Shoulda done this ages ago.”

No, the snow wasn’t the worst part of his night. It was the needless rage in his father's eyes. His former body looked at him through the window with cruel indifference. 

The first shot cut off his breathing, and the second ended his heart’s beating. The last 5 were just to prove a point.

Then there was nothing.