Help writing a transformation?

Is the change important to the story line? if not, consider doing something different with it.

I'm guessing that your story is third person. Rather than describing the change, descibe the change in teh air around her. The smell of the fur, the heat caused by the change itself. Another idea, have your character begin to change, and then refocus to 5 minutes later.

"She felt the pull of the moon and knew it was time. She crawled in under the brush attempting vainly to hide from the beams of moonlight. She pulled her clothes off and set them aside, watching them as the change overtook her.

Two old women out walking their matching toy poodles couldn't understand the sudden change in the animals. They began howling and pulling at their leashes. A shadow moved through the brush and the two women took their kanine charges and walked quickly from the woods...."

Just an idea....or two...

Is it in first person, or third person? I'm gonna write it in first person.

A pain. That came first. It started in the pit of my stomach, and slowly spread to the rest of my body. It was an uncomfortable heat that burned me, immolated me, down the my very soul. I lost feeling in my body. My limbs grew numb and weak. I sank to my knees, barely noticing the mud that was staining my clothes.

I pitched forward and landed on my hands. The inner heat was getting unbearable. It was like I was being cooked from the inside. My arms, my legs, the muscles, the flesh, roasting me, the heat inside of my blood. Cooking me. My veins. My head. It was all on fire. I didn't even notice throwing up.

My muscles contracted involuntarily. It was a single, weak twitch, at first. But then came another, slightly stronger. I gripped the ground with such force that I gouged deep lines even in the hard earth under the mud. My skin. It itched with a frenzy never encountered before. I urged to scratch it, and I did. I scratched at my arms and I ripped of my clothes to scratch at my chest. Lines of skin ripped off, dyed red with the shallow blood that was burning me from the inside. I kept scratching until it looked like I had been clawed by a maniac. My face. My legs. My chest. The minor pain that came with ripping up my skin was nothing compared to the burning flame within. Nothing compared to the unsatisfied itch that I could never purge.

I slammed my shoulder against a sapling. It bend and snapped under my strength. I kept attack the sapling, with my first and my nails until it was reduced to a pulpy mess tinged red with my blood. And I found the next one, and I attacked it too. Where did it come from, this rage? This anger? I wanted to rip this tree apart. I wanted to kill it. Destroy it.

There was a sharp jolt of pain in my jaw, and I heard a crack. I tried to scream, but I couldn't my my mouth. More cracks. Greater pain. I saw my jaw elongate out at the bottom my my vision. My nose grew out with it too. It flattened against my face. No. My snout.

The pain intensified even more, a feat I though impossible. The itching was no longer mere itching. It was a swarm of bees under my skin. It was an entire nest of ants crawling around on me, in me, their tiny legs setting off the receptors in my nerves. I kept scratching, but with sharpened nails and strong fingers. I ripped off flesh instead of tiny strips of skin. But I didn't care. Anything to stop this infernal feeling that was pounding at my head and my body and my consciousness and my sanity and I was going to die, wasn't I?

My chest barreled out. The sudden expansion of my pectoral muscles and ribcage compressed onto my lungs and my heart, and I felt woozy for a moment, unable to breath, finally allowed to die. But the moment passed, and I was taking breaths in larger quantities than ever before. The heat began to subside.

I saw fur sprouting along the length of my forearm. It looked like a dark grass, an evil grass, invading my body. I tried to rip it off, but more grew back. I scratched at it, and yet it continued to march onto my body like a plague. I tried to yell, but the only sound I could make was a growl.

And as if I was led by instinct, I lifted my head to the sky and howled.