The goo lurches from the dropped beaker, travelling up your legs and warming your legs. You try to tug it away, but it sticks to your hands, and while you're quick enough to wrench those free, the goo stays, now on both your hands and legs.
It's made its way up your backside, the shorts you had woken up in somehow gone and replaced by rapidly sprouting fur. You try to wipe the goo away in a panic, even as you feel more spread across your face and lengthening into a muzzle.
A button nose forms across it, twitching as you pant. Long ears flick up from the goo, and you can't help but to stare as your hands become some sort of paws, a newly sprouted tail curling around a hoofed leg.