Submitted by F.J. (not the one from before)/I Am A Dog

I think I posted something about study abroad a few months ago.  Here's a great story submitted by F.J. about a night he was abroad:

Because I started kindergarten a year early, I’ve always been about year younger than most of my peers. When I began my junior year of college, most of my friends were 21 or about to turn 21. I was still 19. That made it difficult to join the migration from campus dorms and frat houses to city bars and clubs. I didn’t have a fake license and there was no way my young face was going to fool any bouncer or bartender.

But I had a plan. I would leave the United States for a land of liquored liberty. I would travel to London Town, where anyone over 18 can grab a pint without the slightest fuss. My excuse to relocate? A study abroad program, of course.

It was great. My new friends and I regularly visited the local pubs, where I discovered the joys of British ales and ciders. Sometimes, we would just grab booze from a corner store and drink in the dorms — or ‘halls’ as they called them. I celebrated part of my 20^th birthday at the pub, part of it in halls. The latter half of the festivities terrified countless innocents and changed me forever.

Everything started out so civilized: pleasant conversation, a piece of cake, a little wine. But the bottles emptied swiftly. We reached for something stronger. The room began to spin. I underwent a transformation I will never forget (except for the memories alcohol washed away).

You know that Kafka novel in which the main character wakes up one morning to find he’s metamorphosized into a monstrous vermin? Well it was kind of like that. Except I didn’t turn into a giant bug. I turned into a dog.

I was on all fours, barking and yelping at anyone who came too close. I would scoot under a table and leap out at intruders, teeth bared. If I found myself cornered, I might dash out of the room into the hallway, as a group of concerned — but laughing — friends tried to keep up.

It was all fun and games at first. Like playing with a new puppy. But my behavior became progressively less Labrador, more Rottweiler.

Something possessed me to single out one girl. She was just standing in the hallway like a wide-eyed kitten sporting a giant red bow, tilting her head in curiosity. She needed to be chased.

I sprinted towards her, still on all fours, barking madly with all the ferocity of a rabid wolf. My approach so startled her that she didn’t have time to turn around and run. Instead, she started to run backwards, scuttling her feet behind her as quickly as she could.

SLAM. She ran right into a wall. She practically ran through a wall.

When her friends helped her out, we all stared at the damage. This wasn’t some minor crack. There was a crater in the wall. It gaped at us, a monstrous gloating mouth.

Fortunately, the girl was perfectly fine: a sore ankle, a mild case of embarrassment. The wall was the real victim.

The next day someone came round to repair the wall. A few days later a poster went up announcing the total cost of repairing the damages: around 300 British pounds, or what was over $600 at the time. These costs were split over the hundred-something residents in halls, so each person only had to pay about 3 pounds. Some people wanted to rat me out, but I had friends in high places — like the student council. People soon forgot about the money. But the memory of the drunken birthday dog will live forever.