...became aware of something solid, vast, and fast-moving above his head. The sky was cement. At his feet, the sky, and, and, something else.
An enormous canine had its jaws clamped around George's foot, slavering and panting around his foot, George hanging helpless, upside down, watching the sidewalk overhead. Pant, pant, click of obscenely huge toenails.
Where was the man in the yellow hat?
Why couldn't he move his arms, twist around and free himself from this ridiculous position? His eyes felt flat, like discs, like buttons. Pant, pant, click, click.
Was it something he drank?
A creeeping dread invaded George's consciousness, washing up the back of his mind like a swarm of ants. Was he, like Gregor Samsa, metamorphosed? Don't be surprised that George should know Kafka, the explorations of a curious mind can take one down many paths, you didn't read about George's adventures in alchemy, in philosophy, in nuclear physics.
Never again to feel his limbs stretch on their own, mouth stitched on, stitched closed, eyes shining buttons, never again to be seen, to be heard, un-Pinocchioed, from real monkey to facsimile, monkey scent gone, golden retriever slobber in its place, curiosity forever passive, a thing, a toy, a doll.