The wolves howl and snap and yip and jump over the couches and divans and ottoman poufs. The living room is long and folds out beyond normal space. The wolves cannot catch the creature.
They jump onto the tea service in the anteroom to the cavernous great room. They shatter the Limoges, breaking it to bits. Elderly women in the room frown, cluck but do nothing to help, really. I am left helping the wolves chase the were-wildebeest out of the hotel while now cleaning up the broken china. It was that one old broad with the smeary lipstick and the ugly hat who let the damn thing in in the first place.
While chasing the creature with the hairy pack of wolves, in real time my husband comes to bed. Snuggle up to me he whispers. I am running and sweeping when he asks me this and am confused by the added request. As the pack is full speed chasing the thing, they all curl up suddenly on large king-sized beds that appear in the great room. Clair de Lune is playing somewhere lulling them off to, I suppose another dream-time. And this were-wildebeest is now wanting to snuggle with me.
Well, there is just too big a mess to clean up here and I don't think it is very wise to snuggle up to cursed and cloven footed animals. There is a rule about that somewhere right.
Fine. I'll snuggle with you. But first let me get that old bat some more tea. I've ground up the broken china to look like sugar.