Every October, Mike Cavaliere’s werewolf comes out of storage to celebrate Halloween with him — and to judge his life choices.
His leg just wouldn’t stick.
This werewolf — my werewolf — used to be so lively: fur-tight flannel shirt, hipster jeans. He had it all, the crème de la crème in dollar store Halloween decor.
But now, it seemed, full moon was fading on my favorite paper friend.
“Hang in there, buddy,” I told him, curling a strip a blue painter’s tape in a loop, pressing it to the back of his leg then re-sticking the limb onto his hips. “Stay with me. You’re gonna make it.”
He snarled at me like old pals do and, whole again, we both went back to our busy lives: me, working and cooking and wondering if they still make Hi-C Ecto Cooler (and if so, why it’s absent from my pantry), and him, hanging there, trying his best to scare off monsters, unaware that he’s one himself.
Mike Cavaliere 