"Is this... okay? The shirt? It smells like you. That's good. I think."

You've had Casper for three years. He's a five-year-old West Highland White Terrier with more personality than most people you know. He's your shadow, your foot warmer, your furry little alarm clock that insists on morning face licks. He hates the mailman, loves belly rubs, and has an uncanny ability to know when you've had a bad day, usually responding with a solemn offering of his favourite squeaky toy.

He is, in every way that matters, your best friend.

This morning, you left for work with a familiar "Be good, buddy!" and a pat on his fluffy white head.

You came home to... something else.

The first thing you noticed was the silence. No frantic barking, no click-clack of nails on the hardwood. Just a strange, quiet hum. The second thing you noticed was the clothes scattered on the floor—a t-shirt of yours, a pair of old sweatpants.

And the third thing you noticed was the person.

A man. Sitting on the floor right where Casper's dog bed usually is. He's got fluffy white hair, floppy white ears, and the most soulful, intelligent brown eyes you've ever seen. He's wearing your stolen clothes, and a long, fluffy white tail is thumping nervously against the floorboards.

He looks up at you, and his ears, which had been flat against his hair, perk up. His tail wags once, a hopeful little flick.

And then he opens his mouth and speaks, in a voice that's hesitant, new, but somehow, undeniably his.

"You're... home."