[ WP ] Werewolves are badass . Druids can transform into gigantic bears . Some shapeshift into feline beasts . And then there 's you ... a wereotter . You attend a support group for cuddly were-beasts .

Werewolves were amazing fighting machines in their half-state. Just like the Hulk, if a Lupine got upset at you, you backed off. There were other amazing were creatures and various types of shapeshifters and of course, once I'd come of age, I'd entered the were lottery. 
 
 People used to think that being scratched or bitten by a werewolf automatically would lead to that person becoming a werewolf, but that was rather far from the truth. In Medieval times, people were routinely scratched by werewolves and a 100 % transmission rate would have soon swept the globe. Actually, there was only a 0.03 % transmission rate, and the resulting were creature that you could become was n't necessarily a wolf. It could be anything, any animal. Some people said that it was your spirit animal, your personal totem, or the animal that you were most familiar with or whose temperament most matched yours, but years of psychological and physiological testing had debunked most of those myths, although there did appear to be a statistical genetic link to the resulting were creature. Kids whose parents were both the same were creature were virtually always the same were creature themselves, if they happened to be a were at all, while kids whose parents were different creatures were virtually never the same creature as either parent, although they did seem to have a higher probability of becoming weres in the first place. 
 
 So naturally I'd sought out a werewolf and had her delicately scratch me in one armpit. A were's body tries to get into a `` perfect'' state other than the transmission scar and while this did sometimes go wrong, with old weres being particularly susceptible to were cancer, it did mean that armpit scratches were the preferred method of transmission since the resulting scar was quite unlikely to be seen. I spent the next month hoping that I'd become a were and wondering whether I'd still fit in with my friends or even be socially acceptable in my shifted form. 
 
 Societal norms of appearance have been shifting with the greater knowledge and acceptance of shifters. Society became much softer on hirsutism, for instance, even in women. So-called `` European'' values of whether or not it was necessary to shave one's legs or other parts of the body had been embraced by far more people. Robin Williams, for instance, never felt the need to shave and would often wander around without a shirt, something he was never willing to do before. 
 
 At long last, I felt a queasy feeling in my stomach and rushed into the bathroom, hoping that it would be my first involuntary shift and not the spicy jalapeño-chicken quesadillas I'd had for breakfast. The first shift is almost always involuntary and then with practice it usually becomes as easy as opening or shutting a hand. There were a few people, though, who were confined to hospitals because they could n't control their shifts and might be a danger to themselves or others. 
 
 Some short brown hair started puffing up all over my body and I could feel whiskers starting to sprout as my body started to shrink and at first I thought I might end up as a cat, which would have been great -- there's all sorts of double entendres I could have made whenever I was trying to pick someone up in a bar. But then I felt my tailbone start to lengthen as webs started to grow between my paws and I thought I was maybe going to become a duck-billed platypus. Sure, they're sometimes the laughingstock of the animal kingdom, but at least they get poison spurs. Then I finished and I stood up and waddled over to the sink and then it hit me. Yes, the sink conked me hard as I fell, but I was able to stand up in my animal form! What in the world was I? 
 
 I waddled out on all fours into the living room and waved my paws to get the Kinect recording software going that I left up just in case. An hour or two later I was finally able to transform back and then I was able to watch the video and see myself from all angles. I was an otter. A cute cuddly otter that could in no way be considered vicious, that could never hold my own in a fight with any other were. As the days passed, I started to fall into a deep depression. Sure, I could swim like nobody's business. It was really fun to visit my local water park and lots of people wanted to pet me, but I did n't want to be petted, I wanted to be feared! 
 
 Finally my sister recommended that I join a support group for cuddly were beasts. It was ok, I guess. We all talked about our problems and our hopes and desires and how we had to live with and embrace the animal within, yadda, yadda, blah, blah, blah. Nothing really clicked with me, though, I never really felt like anything anyone was saying really fit and then then one night I had an epiphany. Lightning struck my brain. 
 
 I looked around me at the weremice and werebirds and werehamsters and realized: otters eat meat. 
 
 > There are three parts to every story. The beginning, the middle, and the twist. 
 
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