My head throbbed as I awoke on cold, splintery planks, the taste of iron in my mouth. I could barely move—my paws were tied, and the barn’s dim morning light revealed thick wooden beams overhead. The last thing I remembered was chasing a scent through the underbrush, only to be ambushed by a heavy, porcine figure. The realization struck me: I had become the hunted.
My captor—the Pig, rotund and wearing a stained checkered apron—dragged me inside. He clucked his tongue, pacing around me, his trotters tapping against the old wooden floor. "You’re going to make a delicious breakfast, wolf," he said, voice syrupy with anticipation. I tried to snarl, but it came out as a whimper.
The humiliation stung more than the cold as the Pig approached with the razor. He sheared away my fur in rough, careless strips, muttering all the while about golden crispiness and just the right amount of crunch. My skin prickled in the chill, goosebumps rising as he dusted me with flour, his touch both clinical and greedy. I caught my reflection in a cracked pie tin—bare, battered, and desperate.
Next, the Pig ladled the sticky batter over me, slathering my limbs, my chest, even the tips of my ears. The sensation was suffocating, the weight of it pressing me down. He whistled an off-key tune as he lifted me—struggling, pleading—toward the open jaws of the iron. "Hold still. Breakfast must be perfect," he crooned.
I squeezed my eyes shut, heart pounding, as the heat surged around me. My body pressed against the searing iron, I could feel the batter bubbling, crisping, my own panic rising with the steam. Every muscle screamed for escape, but I was trapped—flattened, helpless, and baking. The pig’s shadow loomed, triumphant and monstrous.
In those final moments, I thought of forests and moonlight, of running free beneath the stars. All that remained was the scent of my own fur, now mingling forever with sweet syrup and regret. The Pig smiled, savoring the victory as he opened the iron, steam curling like a final farewell. I had chased hunger my whole life—never imagining I’d become someone else’s feast.
