Chapter 1: Vending Machine Justice

If I had known that a bag of sour cream chips would be the death of me, I would’ve bought the barbecue ones instead.

It all started on a Thursday—already cursed. I was standing in front of the vending machine on the third floor of the Denton Towering office complex, jamming the buttons with the force of a man scorned by the universe. My name is—was—Larry Montgomery. Thirty-two. Unattached. Mildly bitter. Professionally underwhelming. And I had one rule in life:

Don’t trust people. Trust snacks.

But even that betrayed me.

The machine took my bill. The coils spun. The chips moved forward... and got stuck. Just hanging there like a smug little criminal, half-fallen, fully mocking me.

“No,” I muttered. “No, no, no—don’t you dare.”

I smacked the glass.

I shook the sides.

People stared. I didn’t care. It was the principle. I gave it money. It owed me chips.

So I did what any proud, hungry idiot would do.

I kicked it.

And kicked it again.

The last thing I remember was a sharp groan, a creak of metal... and then the heavy groan of gravity.

The vending machine tilted.

And in a moment of pure cinematic stupidity, it crashed forward—straight onto me.

Everything went dark.

When I woke up, it wasn’t with angels singing. It was with barking.

Lots of barking.

I blinked. The world smelled weird. Like disinfectant, wet newspaper, and... meat?

My limbs felt wrong. Shorter. Hairier. I tried to sit up and hit my head on something above me—bars.

Metal bars.

Panic surged. I scrambled back and thudded into a wall. My body didn’t move the way I remembered. My hands—weren’t hands. My voice came out as a garbled yelp.

What the—

“Looks like the new one’s up,” said a gravelly voice.

I turned—twisted?—and saw a wrinkled pug staring at me from the next cage over. His face looked like it had survived a blender. His eyes were cloudy, but judging.

I opened my mouth to ask where I was, but it came out:

“Bark?”

The pug nodded solemnly.

“Yeah. That’s how it starts.”

The realization hit me like the vending machine hadn’t.

I wasn’t dead.

I was reincarnated.

As. A. Dog.

Me. Larry Montgomery. Reincarnated. In a shelter. In a cage. Probably neutered.

I flopped onto the mat, staring at the scratched-up wall across from me.

Was this a joke?

Was there some karmic god out there punishing me for refusing to donate to charity that one time?

“Hey, buddy,” the pug said again, leaning his flat face on his paw. “What’s your name?”

I tried to say “Larry.” It came out as a wheezy snort.

“Yeah, that sounds about right,” he said. “Welcome to the pen, reincarnate. Hope you didn’t have big plans.”

I let my head fall onto my paws, my heart pounding faster than my stubby legs could keep up.

No chips. No body. No clue.

Just a new name, a furry face, and a cage that smelled like boiled liver.

If this was some twisted cosmic joke...

I wasn’t laughing.

Chapter 2: The Cage Next Door

I wasn’t ready to accept my fate.

Not when my paws were twitching involuntarily.

Not when I drooled by accident.

Not when I sneezed so hard I headbutted the bars in front of me.

But fate didn’t wait for my approval.

Because just as I was trying to process the fact that I had died and become a dog, the pug in the next cage gave a throaty, dramatic sigh.

“Well,” he said, “looks like reincarnation still has a wicked sense of humor. You’re a mutt.”

I blinked. “Bark?”

“You don’t have to pretend,” he said, waving his paw in a vaguely dismissive way. “I’ve seen the look before. Confused. Angry. Unshowered. You died recently, didn’t you?”

I stared.

He stared back.

“I knew it,” he whispered. “Another fallen soul.”

The pug leaned closer to the bars separating us. His fur was a patchy mosaic of beige and gray, his eyes slightly mismatched, one wandering, the other locked firmly on mine.

“Name’s Barkus,” he said, puffing up his chest like he’d just revealed royalty. “Though in my previous life, I was probably Cleopatra.”

I blinked again.

“Bark?”

“Right, right,” he said with a lazy roll of his paw. “You haven’t found your voice yet. That happens. First few days are rough. You’ll sound like a chew toy, you’ll think fleas are assassins, and you'll question everything.”

He scratched behind his ear dramatically. “Ah, to be freshly reincarnated again.”

Freshly reincarnated. Like bread. Or regret.

I sat there, stunned, as Barkus launched into a monologue.

“I’ve been here a while. Watching. Waiting. Occasionally faking a limp to avoid baths. They don’t suspect a thing.” He sniffed. “I used to be important, you know. I had wealth. Fame. Possibly ruled an empire. The details are hazy, but the aura? Unmistakable.”

I tilted my head.

He nodded, clearly proud.

“You’ll get your memories back,” he continued. “Or maybe you won’t. Some of us are here because we messed up. Others... well, maybe we’re here to finish something. I haven’t quite figured mine out yet. But you...” He squinted at me. “You’ve got the look of a man who avoided emotional growth like fleas.”

I barked in protest. Sort of. It came out like a squeaky door hinge.

Barkus chuckled.

“Denial. Classic Stage One.”

Just then, a human came down the row—volunteer, probably. She was humming a soft tune, holding a clipboard and a bag of treats. Her footsteps made the dogs go wild.

Including Barkus.

He immediately began limping and whimpering like a Shakespearean ghost.

“Ack! My hip! My delicate aristocratic hip!” he groaned, falling against the bars.

The volunteer paused, looked at him blankly, and moved on.

Barkus popped back up, unbothered.

“Doesn’t always work,” he whispered, as if letting me in on a great secret.

I lay there, defeated, watching as the woman clipped a note to my cage door.

New Intake – No Name. Approx 2 yrs. Good teeth. Skittish. Mutt mix.

No name.

No identity.

No clue what the hell I was doing here.

And yet, somehow, Barkus was already chewing on his fifth imaginary legacy.

“I sense greatness in you,” Barkus murmured, licking his paw like a scholar. “Or maybe indigestion. Hard to tell.”

I let out a long sigh, something between a growl and a whimper.

Day One in this... fur-covered nightmare.

I was Larry Montgomery.

Now?

I was just the no-name dog in the cage next door to Cleopatra the pug.

Chapter 3: Named Mochi

Morning hit me like a chew toy to the face.

Literally. Someone tossed one into my cage. I flinched so hard I bit my own tongue.

“Cute,” I muttered—or rather, made a soft disgruntled growl that sounded like an old radiator.

The shelter buzzed with noise. Barking, mopping, clattering bowls. Dogs stretching, yawning, peeing on things they shouldn't. Somewhere nearby, a golden retriever was trying to eat the wall.

And then I heard her.

“Mom, wait—that one. That one! The soft, weird-looking one!”

I pressed my face against the bars as two humans came into view. One was a woman with tired eyes and a clipboard. The other was small, with sparkly shoes and wild hair in two tiny buns.

She looked about eight.

She looked at me like I was a treasure chest.

“His face is all smushed and serious,” she said. “I love him.”

“That one?” the woman asked, raising an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

The girl nodded solemnly.

“Completely.”

The cage door creaked open.

What. Was. Happening.

“Come on, boy,” the volunteer coaxed, patting her leg. “Let’s meet your new family.”

I backed up.

No thanks.

I didn’t do “new families.” I didn’t do kids. I didn’t do—treats?

She held one out.

I sniffed. Against my will. My stomach growled.

Fine. Bribery works.

I stepped forward, cautiously, and she giggled.

“See? He’s perfect. He’s like a mochi ball. All squishy.”

She turned to the woman—her mom, probably—and declared with absolute finality:

“I’m naming him Mochi.”

No.

Absolutely not.

I was Larry Montgomery, tax-paying, bad-attitude-having, coffee-guzzling, miserable adult.

Not... a dessert.

“You hear that?” the mom smiled weakly. “Mochi it is.”

The clipboard scribbled my new fate.

I glanced back at my cage—at Barkus.

He was lounging like a Roman emperor on his tattered blanket, licking his paw with dignified flair.

“So it begins,” he said.

“What begins?” I barked softly, barely able to control my tail (which, traitorously, was wagging).

“Your journey. Your sentence. Your enlightenment. Or, you know, maybe just years of belly rubs and awkward sweaters. Hard to say.”

I looked at him. The pug I had known for less than a day... but who somehow understood everything better than I did.

“You’ll be okay,” he said. “You’re soft. That’s a good start.”

And then he raised one paw in the air, dramatically.

“Farewell, Mochi. May your fleas be few and your snacks be many.”

The shelter door opened. Light poured in.

The leash tugged gently.

I stepped forward.

Not because I wanted to.

But because the little girl holding it looked like someone who hadn’t smiled like this in a long time.

As the door closed behind me, I heard Barkus yell one last thing:

“Tell the humans I demand tuna at my next feast!”

And just like that, I left my cage, my dignity, and Cleopatra the pug behind.

I was no longer Larry.

I was Mochi.

And I had absolutely no idea what I was doing.