Journal of Dorbin the Druid

The Journal and Testament of Dorbin the Unpetted – Entry 17 (or Possibly 18, I’ve Lost Count)

A Good Boy, in his unnatural environment

Ah, the indignity. My mind still clings to the beauty and tranquility of my home forest in Atoria. The lush foliage and balanced wildlife grew and thrived at my skill and hand. The power to meld with nature and, through my power, amplify its mighty force in a ripple of elemental magic and mast…oh, that's right, it's time to go outside again. Time to don this infernal vest of restriction and be tied off on a cable to root around what he calls ‘the yard’ for a suitable place to relieve myself.  

The first few days were amusing. I spent hours examining my new appendages, which are highly inefficient for someone of my caliber. Four legs? What purpose does this serve? The whole structure feels unnecessarily rigid and unbalanced, even if it is excellent for running after balls. (I shall not make reference to balls again. The shame, the unrelenting shame.) I have, however, grown fond of my tail, which swishes with alarming regularity whenever I am near chimken. Is this what the people call “obsession”? I cannot quite fathom how the constant need to acquire snacks has overtaken my ability to focus on escape.

But I digress.

I attempted to use my druidic powers to return to my true form. The first spell I cast resulted in the most curious spectacle: a bork. Yes, I borked. A loud, unnecessary sound that seemed to communicate some sort of distress or excitement, though I’m still unsure of which. To my surprise, it worked. The human who had adopted me – it’s called Malcolm – promptly provided me with a treat for my efforts. How curious! I bork again, and he gives me more food. My assumption that he was the dominant hand in this relationship is quickly turning.

I have spent the last several days perfecting my bork, though I cannot yet achieve the force and depth of my original voice. The best I can do is a high-pitched yip. The sheer frustration of being unable to communicate anything of real importance is palpable. Why do they not understand my desperate desire to return to my sacred forest home? Instead, I am now an obedient "good boy," as Malcolm the chimken-bringer calls me, always ready to fetch sticks I never threw.

Today, I tried something more… radical. Harnessing my new skills (admittedly, I’ve only just begun to understand), I broke into the neighbor’s house. A bold move, I thought, considering the magical barriers I’ve encountered while here. However, once inside, my mission to regain my true form was sidetracked by a cat. I barely survived the ensuing chase, as my new body, agile as it may be, is far from the precision I once wielded in my druidic form. The cat, it seems, had been waiting for such a moment, for it darted between my legs, mocking me with its superior agility. The cat has now surpassed on my list of nemeses the mimicking bastard of a doppelganger that I encounter in the scrying glass at the top of the stairs every time I go by it and the noisy hell-spawned construct Malcolm pulls from the closet occasionally to terrorize me with or (one can only assume) collect as much chimken particulate from the floor of his hovel as possible, as not to waste it.

To add insult to injury, Malcolm arrived at the neighbor’s house shortly afterward. It scolded me for “bothering” the cat, took me back to its hovel, and immediately shoved me into the corner with a chew toy. A chew toy. I gave it a quick glance and tried to burn it with my magic…but no, my powers are still dormant. All I can do is gnaw on it. To think, I—I, a master of ancient spells—am reduced to chewing on a rubber object like some common beast. I am slowly working on a plan to uncover a portal home hidden inside the sofa cushion in the living room.  

I have also learned of the creature called "mailman." There is no greater enemy in this new world, and I am gathering evidence that he and the cat have entered a vile pact to abscond with Malcolm’s (MY) chimken and cheese. Every day, this person arrives, and the noise they make when approaching…it is unbearable! Yet Malcolm, the balding bipedal shower bard, insists on bringing me inside, where I must watch from the window as this intruder leaves strange packages of unknown content and ill-boding on the doorstep. My bork, in its undeveloped form, naturally, is ignored. Oh, how I yearn for the wilds, where the howl of wolves could deter trespassers.

My plan for escape remains unclear, but tomorrow I will try a new approach: the ancient art of sit and stay. Perhaps the mailman will think I’m a docile creature and leave me something of value. A bone, perhaps? Or…dare I dream…an enchanted stone of transfiguration that may reverse my form? I dare not hope too much, lest the spark of optimism be consumed by the cursed belly rubs that follow my every success. Earth Mother, I really am starting to hate Malcolm; it’s more needy than a baby goat and shows enthusiasm at the most sophomoric and inane of accomplishments. 

Tonight, I lie upon my bed, pondering. A bed. In the forest, I would have been atop moss and stone, embraced by the earth itself. Now, I am cradled in a soft, synthetic cocoon, surrounded by plush toys and an increasingly expectant hooman(?). There are times when I feel close to unraveling the solution to my predicament. But for now, I must settle for being the damnable good boy, lest the flow of cheese be slowed…for tomorrow may bring the answers I seek…or at the very least, another shot at the cat.

End of Entry. Bork.